Templar Page 7

  ‘Who?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘I cannot say, sister, I am bound for God’s judgement seat. I do not wish to lie or condemn another. My soul is black and heavy enough already.’ He paused in a fit of coughing.

  Eleanor grasped a battered waterskin and held it to his lips. Fulcher’s face had taken on a deathly pallor. Eleanor glanced quickly around. The blacksmith’s story had made her less aware of the bloody mayhem around her. She abruptly thought of Hugh galloping off towards the Greeks and quietly prayed he would be safe.

  ‘Sister, for God’s sake I’ll be brief.’ Fulcher’s fingers fluttered against her wrist. ‘A horseman appeared, cowled and visored. He told us a hideous story of how Anstritha was truly a witch who deserved to die. How she dug her fingers deep into the sockets of dead men’s eyes and bit off the long yellow nails from withered hands as she harvested the bodies of hanged men. How she made the black sacrifice in the dead of night and sacrificed bowls of blood to the demons of the air. Nonsense,’ Fulcher whispered, ‘but we believed him. He insisted we should cleanse such filth from our village. He left a wineskin and a piece of silver for each of us. We were bought,’ he coughed, ‘body and soul. We were told to wait for a sign, and when it came to act. On the night she died, we assembled hooded and visored in the tap room of the Vine of God. The taverner was with us. You, Lord Hugh and Godefroi were absent. Robert the Reeve, I am sure it was he, led us to Anstritha’s house. Sister, it was a blasphemy! Anstritha was in her small buttery, brewing ale. We burst in and seized her, but even then I knew something was very wrong. Anstritha fled to the church. I was already regretting my part. I returned to her house, not to plunder but to search for evidence. I found nothing that would be out of place in a nun’s cell, but more importantly . . .’ he struggled to pull himself up, ‘the horseman was there. Again his head and face were covered. He had already searched the house. I carried my hammer but he was armed with sword and dagger. He told me to be about my business. I realised we’d been used. I fled; I was frightened. By the time I rejoined the rest, Anstritha was captured. She was strapped and bound like some outlaw caught red-handed. I tried to speak to her, to console her. She asked if I could hear her confession. I told her I was no priest, but she insisted. Sister, my guilt deepened. Anstritha had a pure heart. Others came to taunt her. She whispered the Contrition and said I was to take her left sandal and give what I found to someone I trusted, “a new Veronica”—’

  ‘I am sorry?’ Eleanor interrupted.

  ‘Sister, I tell you what I know. Go amongst my belongings.’ He banged his head against the baskets and panniers piled behind him. ‘Take the small one, now.’ He pushed himself forward, allowing Eleanor to free the saddlebags, two pouches held together by a strap. ‘Keep them,’ he gasped, ‘and all that is in them. God knows there is no one else. Now, sister, I must confess . . .’

  ‘Who was this horseman, this stranger?’

  ‘I don’t know. Anstritha did claim she had travelled to Outremer. She told me that she had secrets of her own. Just before I left, she admitted how her present troubles were the fault of a half-brother who’d plagued her life.’ Fulcher coughed on his own blood. ‘Sister, it was dark, she was terrified, as was I. She would say no more. The fire roared and they hanged her above it. Anstritha’s blood is now on my hands and those of others. We have to pay, I know that.’

  Eleanor, more to humour him than anything else, kissed him on the brow, muttered the Jesu Miserere, took the bag and left Fulcher to Brother Norbert’s ministrations. She’d hardly returned to where Imogene lay sleeping beneath the cart when shouts and cries sent her running to a gap. Hugh and his companions came thundering back. A cart was pulled aside and the riders galloped through, accompanied by a high-ranking Greek officer in court dress, a long, ornate gown that hung midway down his boots, bright and richly embroidered with gold thread. Behind him was a young servant boy dressed in green. Immediately they were surrounded by the vicomte and his commanders and a heated discussion ensued. Eleanor hurried to join the fast-gathering crowd. Jehan, leader of the Beggars’ Company, was summoned and the debate continued. From the people around her Eleanor learned that the Greeks had attacked because a nobleman’s villa had been plundered: the owner’s wife, together with his two daughters, had been brutally raped, then hanged from the beams of their own house. The servant boy had escaped but would recognise the attackers, and the finger of suspicion was already pointed at Jehan’s company. The Greeks had issued an ultimatum: the perpetrators must be identified and summarily punished, otherwise a fresh attack would be launched. Jehan tried to defend his company, but the vicomte ordered him to co-operate or be expelled.

  The entire Beggars’ Company was summoned and lined up along the carts. Shouts of defiance – ‘Toulouse, Toulouse!’ – were swiftly quieted by the vicomte’s commanders, drawing their swords, whilst Hugh, now their envoy, stood up in his stirrups and proclaimed that rape and murder had nothing to do with their quest. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, ‘if justice is done, the Greeks will offer provisions and escort us safely to the great city.’ Shouts of abuse echoed, followed by more cries of ‘Toulouse, Toulouse!’ Nevertheless, the mood shifted as more people joined the throng. The servant boy dismounted and, accompanied by Hugh and Beltran, walked along the line of Beggars. Four men were identified. They shrieked their innocence as Hugh ordered them to be dragged out. The servant boy, grasping the crucifix Alberic thrust into his hand, shouted his oath that he’d spoken the truth. The men’s fate was sealed. Another quarrel took place between the vicomte and the Greek. The vicomte pointed to Hugh. The official nodded in agreement, bowed and, turning his horse, galloped off, followed by the servant.

  The four prisoners were hustled out from behind the line of carts and forced to kneel on the ground, still littered with corpses and broken weapons. Alberic moved along, crouching before each one, hand lifted in absolution. He had just reached the third when Greek horsemen emerged, riding slowly up to watch what was happening. Alberic finished. Hugh, carrying a basket, stepped forward. He drew his sword and, like a harvester collecting grain, neatly severed each of the condemned men’s heads, a slicing cut that sent the head rolling like a ball. Blood spurted up as the corpses toppled over. Eleanor looked away. Once Hugh was finished, he collected the heads, put them in the basket and, walking towards the line of horsemen, placed it on the ground before them. He returned, cleaned his sword on the clothing of one of the corpses, resheathed it and strolled back to the watching wall of Franks.

  Bread, meat, wine and ripe fruit began to reach the camp just before nightfall. Carts piled high with produce were escorted into the camp by Turcopole mercenaries in flowing sky-blue robes, white turbans on their heads, black horn bows thrust into side pouches on their saddles. The arrivals were greeted with dark looks but Hugh, unperturbed by the brutal executions, went out to talk to the Turkish officer, who smilingly agreed to his request to stage a display of mounted archery out on the open meadowland. Hugh, holding Eleanor’s hand, watched the rider circle round a tree stump, horse and officer acting as one. The nimble mount turned and twisted even as the Turcopole, low in the saddle, loosed shaft after shaft into the stump.

  ‘This is what we will face, Eleanor,’ Hugh murmured, raising a hand in thanks to the officer. ‘These are the enemy, not Greek women and girls. Do you know they were mere children, raped, tortured and hanged before their mother, who was forced to witness it. If I had my way, I would enforce strict discipline on this rabble. Anyone who raises a hand against an innocent should be executed; it is the only way. The Greeks do not wish to fight us. They see us as defence against the Turks. Yet there is more bad news.’ He pulled a face. ‘Our leaders are arguing in Constantinople; they cannot decide on who will lead the army.’

  ‘Hugh, look at me.’

  He did so.

  ‘Tell me,’ Eleanor stepped closer, ‘why are you here? To impose order, to create a brotherhood, or something else?’

  He slowly wiped the sweat fr
om his dirty face.

  ‘I asked you a question, brother, a direct question that deserves an honest answer. We are travelling across the world to Jerusalem, yet there is more to it, isn’t there, than the freeing of Christ’s Sepulchre, the liberation of the Holy Places. You, Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert, there is something else, some secret.’

  He opened his mouth to reply.

  ‘Hugh, I know you like no one else does. You don’t lie. Sometimes you simply don’t tell the truth! I have asked you to lend me that poem, “La Chanson de Voyage de Charlemagne”. What is in that, Hugh?’

  He scraped his boots on the ground and, leaning down, took off his spurs, jingling them in his hand.

  ‘I promise you this, sister,’ he smiled, ‘I will tell you everything, but not now. We face problems enough. My execution of those men is not popular.’

  ‘Nor was their crime,’ Eleanor retorted. She stared at her brother. His unshaven face looked harder, more resolute. She felt tempted to tell him about Fulcher, but decided to wait. They were bound for Jerusalem, but Hugh and, to a certain extent Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert too, apparently had their own private crusade. She was sure it was not her own imagination, but decided to accept Hugh’s reticence for the time being.

  They returned to the camp now all a-bustle, bitterness at the Greek attack and the subsequent executions swiftly receding as the food and wine were distributed. After Vespers, Eleanor, Hugh, Godefroi, Alberic and Norbert joined the leaders of other companies in a tented enclosure lit by cresset torches lashed to poles. The vicomte and his colleagues stood on a dais and openly debated what was to be done next. Shouted argument and counterargument ensued, wine and full bellies quickening tempers. Many claimed Count Raymond should not have abandoned them. A few voiced the wish to return home. Eleanor felt tired and sick. She excused herself and returned to the cart where Imogene, helped by a nearby family, had set up tent. Beyond the ring of carts, the torches of scavengers and other searchers moved around the battlefield. Guards on foot also patrolled in the jingle of armour and the creak of leather. Eleanor was about to settle down when she remembered Fulcher. She found the pannier where she’d hidden it and shook out the paltry contents: a dagger, some nails, a medal, pieces of silver and a thick-soled sandal, its leather upper prised loose from the stitching. Eleanor put her fingers inside and drew out a neatly folded piece of smooth vellum. She unfolded this; it was larger than she’d thought. The vellum was slightly oiled, the best to be found in any chancery or scriptorium. In the poor light she could make out a drawing like a map and the clearly written letters above it.

  ‘Under the Rock,’ she translated, ‘look on the treasures of God and the face of the Lord.’ She moved the lantern horn closer. The diagram meant nothing to her, nor did the words. She sat down, refolded the piece of vellum and tucked it into the hem of her cuff. Fulcher had evidently thought this was important; so had Anstritha. Was this the manuscript the mysterious horseman had been searching for? Anstritha had been out to Outremer; so had Norbert and Alberic. Had they discovered something precious there? Eleanor closed her eyes. She recalled that list of relics held by her brother, and yes, something else: Hugh and Godefroi chanting that poem they so zealously read. Those words on Anstritha’s manuscript sparked a memory of verses in the ‘Chanson’ about the face of Christ. Was there more to the Poor Brethren of the Temple? Anstritha and Fulcher had both died violently, as had Robert the Reeve. Was the latter’s death an accident? And was the horseman now one of their company? They had never really discussed Robert’s death. The reeve was undoubtedly a toper, but how had he drowned in that stream? Did he know something? Had he been inveigled outside and murdered?

  Eleanor heard sounds, her name being called. She crawled to the mouth of the tent and pulled back the flap. Hugh crouched there.

  ‘Sister,’ he smiled, ‘a decision has been made. We, the leaders of the Poor Brethren, will leave immediately tomorrow morning for Constantinople to take urgent council with the Lord Raymond.’

  Part 4

  Constantinople: The Morrow of the Feast of

  St Athanasius, 3 May 1096

  In quo cessabit mulierum amor et desiderium.

  (A day on which the love and desire of women

  will cease.)

  The Dies Irae of St Columba

  Eleanor de Payens of Compiègne in the county of Champagne, crucesignati, cross-bearer, sister of Hugh, widow of Odo de Furneval, always swore that the city of Constantinople, old Byzantium, was the nearest thing to her image of the heavenly Jerusalem, despite the treachery, murder and intrigue brewing in that great city by its inland sea. Eleanor and her companions reached Constantinople around the Feast of St Mark the Evangelist. Theodore, their guide, described the city as a rough triangle bounded on two sides by the sea and enclosed within massive twin walls. They entered through the Golden Gate, three sets of soaring bronze doors enclosed by a white-brick, red-tiled wall, which, in turn, was surmounted by two massive golden statues of Victory and four huge elephants carved from the same precious metal.

  The Poor Brethren joined Count Raymond at the luxurious villa the Emperor, Alexius Comnenus, had provided for the Provençal leader just off the great highway leading up to the Golden Gate. The count received them well. He grew furious at the news about the Greek attack, though he was full of praise for Hugh’s actions. He was restless, still in deep negotiation with both the other leaders as well as the Emperor’s court. He insisted that they relax whilst they waited. They bathed, dressed in fresh flowing robes, ate soft fruit-bread and fresh lamb roasted in mint and spices, and drank wines that had once, Theodore assured them, drenched the mouths of Alexander the Great and his generals.

  In the days following, Theodore proved to be a knowledgeable, courteous and highly intelligent guide. He showed them the glories of the city. They were ushered up marble steps into the great palaces where Varangians, warriors from the north, stood on guard in their gold-edged scarlet cloaks. On their heads were plumed silver helmets, in their hands the two-headed axes that distinguished them as the Immortals, Alexius’ imperial body guard. Past these pattered servants in their silver-slippered feet, hurrying to do the will of the Basileus, the Elect of God, their Christ-Adoring Emperor. Eleanor and her companions also walked the great city walls, thirty feet high and seventeen miles long, and from the summit of the Golden Gate watched the caravans of carts, camels, donkeys and horses bringing in the produce of the empire.

  They visited the harbours and quaysides of the Golden Horn where triangular-sailed fishing smacks cut the light-blue, sun-dazzled waters, past imperial galleys with their banks of oars and the huge dragon’s heads arching out over carved prows which, Theodore confided, spat out streams of mysterious Greek fire. In the cool of the evening they wandered the streets, escorted at all times by mercenaries who ensured that these Franks were kept safe and did not wander where they shouldn’t. After the dusty open roads, rocky meadowland and thick forests of their recent march, Eleanor found the contrast dazzling. In the teeming city bazaars, bearded, hawk-eyed men shouted at them in a variety of bewildering languages as they offered camphor oil, sesame, silk from Cathay, spices such as sandalwood and rolls of heavy embroidery. From open-fronted cookshops traders served platters of honey cake, walnuts, chilled cherries and goblets of Chian wine. Afterwards they walked in the imperial gardens, where the Judas trees blossomed and the wild vines grew heavy and lush. Along the waterways cutting through these paradises sailed gilt-edged pleasure barges and imperial galleys resplendent in their pennants. Eleanor would remember such luxury and opulence during the storm of war, disease and famine that would later engulf them. She also kept to her promise that she would discover what secret desires prompted the hearts of those in her company. She began to hint at this whenever she was alone with Hugh, though this was a rare event. Count Raymond depended on Hugh, especially in his discussions with the other lords about the setting up of a council of leaders, establishing a common fund and sharing provisions.
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  All the great lords were now arriving in Constantinople, bringing with them men of every nationality and tongue. Eleanor had glimpsed these leaders as they visited the luxurious villa to confer with Count Raymond. Hugh of Paris, brother to the King of France, was the first Frank to arrive in Constantinople. The French prince’s small fleet had been shipwrecked, many of his troops drowned, their sea-drenched corpses washed up in inlets and on islands. Nevertheless all these corpses, so it was rumoured, bore red crosses, a miracle, a sure sign that they had fulfilled their vow and would receive God’s reward. Godfrey of Bouillon arrived, iron-haired and harsh-faced, with his ambitious wily brother Baldwin, whilst Adhémar of Le Puy, the scheming, warlike bishop, still nursing his sore head after the attack on him in Sclavonia, led in the rest of Count Raymond’s troops to be comfortably quartered in the fields and meadows beyond the city. Robert ‘Short-breeches’, Duke of Normandy, red-haired and even more red-faced, jovial and laughing, lazy and feckless but a superb horseman and a skilled warrior, came swaggering in. Finally Bohemond, the Norman Prince of Taranto, yellow-haired with the face of a hunting eagle, who stood over six feet, with the powerful arms of a swordsman. A Norman who took to fighting like a bird to flying, Bohemond was no friend of the Greeks. He had fought to carve himself an empire in southern Italy and Greece, only to be repulsed. He now brought five hundred knights under his scarlet banner, eager for Jerusalem but with an equally sharp eye for any territories and fiefs along the way that he could claim as his own. Bohemond was joined by his nephew Tancred de Hauteville, the finest swordsman amongst the Normans, a bird of similar feather to Bohemond though one more concerned about his soul and the blood on his hands than seizing some rich fief.