God's Warrior Read online

  Looking over the heads of the attacking horde Ranulph realised that groups of them were already among the infantry, who were struggling to form a defensive line to protect the wagons and the non-combatants. Without chain mail the men were easy targets and already there were bodies on the ground. Above the din he heard a trumpet call and Bohemond’s voice. ‘To me! To me!’ He looked round and saw that his fellow knights were fighting their way through the mélèe to their leader’s side. He shouted to Marc to follow and set spurs again to Brand, forcing his way through to join them.

  ‘Dismount!’ Bohemond ordered. ‘Dismount and form a line, shield to shield.

  Even as that cry carried down the line Ranulph heard a new sound. Away to his left another war-cry was raised, this time a Frankish one, accompanied by the thunder of hooves as a squadron of thirty or forty knights charged into the oncoming Turkish horde. He recognised the standard which flew above them as Tancred’s.

  Bohemond bellowed, ‘Come back you fool! Come back!’ but it was too late. The band of knights was immediately surrounded by triumphantly yelling Turks. Ranulph saw a horse go down, its rider underneath it. A second knight flung back his head with a scream and fell backwards. Someone, he thought it was Tancred himself, dismounted and lifted the body of the knight whose horse had fallen onto his saddle-bow and leapt up behind it; another man hauled the wounded knight up behind him. With a yell Tancred put his horse to the gallop and charged through the encircling archers, heading back towards the main body of his countrymen, and the rest followed.

  Bohemond’s knights, better disciplined, had followed his orders and formed a line which closed the arc across the curve in the river. Behind them, the infantry had breathing space enough to form ranks, with lances at the ready, and from behind them the Frankish crossbowmen began to pour lethal bolts into the dense mass of the enemy. Out of potential chaos and defeat came order.

  Ranulph gave Brand’s reins to Dino, who was crouching behind the line.

  ‘Taken him to the rear, out of range of the arrows!’

  The boy ran off, Brand trotting at his side, and Ranulph pushed into the line next to his lord, with Marc on his left. He raised his shield above his head against the unrelenting rain of arrows and braced his feet. They were outnumbered by ten to one at least, he reckoned, but as long as the shield wall held the women and children in the wagons would be safe.

  Once again Bohemond raised his voice above the din. ‘My brothers, much depends on us today. So stand fast, all together, trusting in Christ and the victory of the Holy Cross. Today, please God, you will all gain much booty.’

  Simon le Pole, the captain of the infantry, pushed through the throng to Bohemond’s side. ‘Sire, the ground close to the river is marshy. Already two of the wagons have sunk up their axles.’

  Bohemond glanced back at the camp briefly. ‘At least it means that horses cannot be used effectively against us. We will deal with the wagons once the Turks have been driven off. Have the scouting parties returned?’

  ‘Yes, sire. They managed to ford the river and slip in behind your line.’

  ‘Send them to me.’

  Each party had been led by a local man, Armenian hunters who knew the local terrain and had no love for the occupying Turks. Bohemond called over his shoulder, his words punctuated by the thud of arrows striking his shield. ‘Lord Godfrey is following with his force. They cannot be more than half a day’s ride behind us. .. Also, my lord of Toulouse must be not far to the east of us by now. You must find them... tell them that we are beset by great numbers of the enemy and cannot stand against them without aid. Say that I beg them to bring their knights with all speed to our rescue. Tell them that if they do not reach us before nightfall they may find nothing but our bodies. You will be well rewarded if we live.’

  As the men hurried away he turned to his squire. ‘Find that foolhardy nephew of mine and send him to me.’

  Tancred thrust his way along the line, his face streaked with blood.

  Bohemond looked round at him, over the rim of his shield. ‘You were almost captured. Perhaps now you will have learned that foolhardy courage is no substitute for sound tactical sense. Are you wounded?’

  Tancred jerked up his head and bright drops of blood scattered in the last gleam of the sun.

  ‘It’s of no consequence.’

  ‘Two of your men were not so lucky. Do they live yet?’

  ‘One does. The other was killed by an arrow through the throat.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Tancred’s face taughtened. ‘William.’

  Bohemond leaned closer. ‘William? Your brother William?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a moment neither man spoke. Then Bohemond said harshly, ‘So, you are well punished for your stupidity. In future, you will obey orders.’

  Tancred stood silent a moment longer, then he turned and limped back towards his own men and Bohemond resumed his position.

  The sun rose higher and the assault continued without respite. The enemy archers had realised that their arrows were making little impression on the armoured knights and had changed their tactics, firing over their heads towards the softer targets behind; and the frequent cries and curses showed that they were finding their marks. The crossbowmen at the rear fired back, launching their bolts as fast as they could into the swirling mass. After an hour or two the plain in front of the camp was littered with bodies of the dead and dying. In spite of this, there seemed to be no diminution in the number of archers. Ranulph’s shield was stuck with arrows like the quills on a porcupine and glancing along the line he saw that every other knight was burdened in the same way. Too often a scream told him that an unlucky chance had found a gap between mailed shirt and unarmoured flesh, at the throat or in the armpit. As knights fell and had to be withdrawn the ranks closed, but each time that happened they had to fall back a pace to shorten the line, and Ranulph felt the ground beneath his feet growing softer until his boots sank into sucking mud. He was cursing the fact under his breath when he saw that Bohemond’s first assessment of the situation had been correct. A small group of Turks saw the withdrawal and galloped closer, whooping in triumph. Then first one horse and then another lost its footing and somersaulted, throwing its rider. The rest wheeled their mounts aside and in future kept their distance.

  In the brief ensuing pause a voice behind him called softly, ‘Water, sir?’ He glanced round and saw the smith’s daughter at his shoulder with a pannikin of water. The sight of her shocked him so much that he almost forgot his own danger. Her hair, which she normally kept modestly covered, was loose and hung round her shoulders and she had loosened her tunic at the neck so that the swell of her breasts was visible. He was almost sure that she had reddened her lips and darkened her eyes with khol.

  ‘Phyrne? In the name of God, why are you dressed like that? You should be on your knees praying for salvation, not dressing yourself like a harlot!’

  She gazed back at him, wide-eyed, and he saw that underneath the paint her face was ashen.

  ‘It seemed to some of us that if the Turks prevail it would be better to be taken as a maidservant, or a concubine, than left for dead.’

  Pity replaced anger. He reached out for the water and swallowed it gratefully. ‘Have a care! You are within range of the archers here.’

  ‘I know, but it is a small thing compared with what you endure. It is one thing we women can do to help.’

  Looking along the line, Ranulph saw that other women were offering water to the rest of the knights. The ground beneath his feet might be boggy, but at least the river meant plentiful supplies.

  ‘It is a great thing,’ he said. ‘Men will faint for want of water in this heat. Thank you!’

  More time passed. Ranulph’s arm shook from the effort of holding his shield against the arrows and sweat ran out of his hair and stung his eyes. Beside him, Marc swayed on his feet and Ranulph braced his shoulder against him to steady him until he recovered. Behind him he was dimly awar
e of shouts and splashes and part of his mind registered the thought that the crowd of non-combatants, the women and the cooks and all the rest of the hangers-on, were being forced back further and further until they were in the shallows at the edge of the river. He knew that he was coming to the end of his strength and wondered how much longer the line could hold. Lifting his gaze for a moment from the attackers he saw the outline of the distant mountains that fringed the plateau and a verse from a psalm came into his head. ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth.’

  As if in answer, he heard a cheer from the left flank and saw the Turkish archers turn to face a new threat. Godfrey of Bouillon with fifty knights at his back galloped into view in a tight wedge-shaped formation Their momentum carried them through the massed ranks of attackers, scattering them to left and right, until they reached Bohemond’s knights. The shield wall parted to allow them through and they leapt from their saddles and took their places in the line. They were not enough to turn the odds decisively in the Franks favour, but the additional men meant that wounded knights, or those nearing exhaustion, could be withdrawn. The Turks recovered from the momentary disruption, and returned to the attack with renewed violence.

  For Ranulph and the rest there was nothing to be done except to grit their teeth and endure and watch the sun slowly dip towards the mountains. In the centre of the line Bohemond stood like a rock against the incoming tide and, as spirits began to flag again after the momentary uplift of Godfrey’s arrival, a message was passed from mouth to mouth. ‘Stand fast, trust in God. Remember the great rewards in store for us.’

  Then, at last, a new war cry was heard away to the right and through the dust raised by pounding hooves Ranulph made out the glint of armour and a banner streaming in the breeze of the rider’s speed. Seconds later a formation of mounted knights came into sight, riding shoulder to shoulder in line abreast, lances couched, driving the Turks before them; and above them flew the banner of Count Raymond of Toulouse.

  ‘Praise God!’ Ranulph croaked from a throat parched with dust and exhaustion. ‘We are saved!’

  Bohemond broke ranks and drew his sword. ‘Now we have them! Charge!’

  Finding strength from somewhere, Ranulph forced his weary limbs into a run and followed his command. The other knights surged forward with him and they closed on the now confused and disoriented Turkish archers, slashing at their horses’ legs and then at the throats of the riders as they fell. Caught between Raymond’s cavalry and Bohemond’s knights the remaining Turks wheeled their horses from side to side, seeking a gap in the lines; then suddenly another shout went up and all of them turned tail and galloped back towards the valley. Ranulph paused and leant on his sword, gasping for breath. Then, lifting his eyes, he saw a pall of smoke rising above the trees.

  Marc, close by as always in battle, gasped out, ‘Someone has fired the Turkish camp!’ and as he spoke Bohemond shouted ‘To horse! To horse!’

  The squires had waited all day with the destriers, ready for when they might be needed, and now raced forward with them. Ranulph swung himself into the saddle and followed Bohemond in a headlong race towards the trees. Released from the tension of inactivity he was swept up in a wild excitement, the battle rage he remembered from his days as a mercenary, and he thrust and stabbed at the fleeing Turks without compunction. Following the narrow tracks made by the enemy horsemen and ducking below overhanging branches, he heard the combined force of Bohemond’s and Godfrey’s knights crashing through the forest on either side of him. Then, abruptly, he found himself in a clearing at the head of the valley. Below him was the Turkish camp and in the centre of it a huge fire sent oily black smoke into the sky. Tents and pavilions in shapes and colours unlike any in the Frankish camp were ranked around it and between them the ground was strewn with bodies. Moving among them were knights in western chain mail whose colours marked them as the followers of Bishop Adhemar of le Puy. In the distance beyond, the remnants of the Turkish forces were streaming down the valley, and at the sight of Bohemond and his knights the last few still resisting mounted their horses and galloped after them.

  It was Bohemond who led the final dash downhill into the camp but the rest were close behind and Raymond’s knights were converging from the other side. Ranulph remembered the Count’s words that morning – ‘Today, please God, you will all gain much booty.’ Suddenly the fierce elation of the pursuit evaporated and he felt sick. He dismounted at the edge of the camp and led Brand to the small stream which ran near it. As the horse drank, he threw an arm across the saddle and leant his head against the sweat-streaked withers, shaking with exhaustion.

  Marc found him at last, kneeling at the edge of the stream while Brand cropped the grass nearby.

  ‘Are you wounded?’

  Ranulph raised his head from his hands wearily. ‘Only in spirit. Is this what we came for, Marc? Is this the great work God requires of us?’

  Marc sank down beside him, shaking his head. ‘Is it for us to question? This is warfare. It can never be otherwise. If we are to free the Holy places it can only be by war. You should come to the camp. Bohemond spoke more truly than any of us could have imagined. There is booty enough for all - gold and silver, horses and mules and even camels. Surely rewards like this are a mark of God’s favour.’ He laid his hand on Ranulph’s shoulder. ‘Come! You need to eat. There is more food here than any of us have seen in months. A great feast is in preparation. God has given us victory. We should rejoice.’

  7.

  Antioch! It was just as he remembered it, cradled against the mountains and girded by the River Orontes. Within the massive walls the tumble of houses climbed the hillside towards the citadel, perched on the highest point. Ranulph caught his breath. Memory struck him with the force of a punch to the gut, so that he gave in involuntary grunt, causing Marc to cast him a questioning sideways glance. He shook his head, like a horse shaking off pestering flies, and concentrated on the view ahead. The river lay between them and the city, crossed by a single bridge, and on both sides of it were fields which had once grown wheat, now after the harvest reduced to stubble, and orchards still heavy with fruit. Vineyards clung to the hillsides and fat cattle grazed the rich pasture.

  ‘Praise God!’ Marc exclaimed. ‘There will be fodder for the horses!’

  ‘Thanks be to Him, indeed,’ Ranulph replied. ‘It is sorely needed. But first we have to deal with them.’

  His meaning was obvious. On either side of the bridge and ranked along the banks of the river was a strong force of men in armour, both cavalry and infantry. These were not the wild, undisciplined horse archers they had encountered before but a trained and well-equipped army.

  Ranulph caressed Brand’s neck, feeling how the flesh had fallen in so that the corded muscles stood out. He was on foot, leading the destrier. His palfrey had foundered several days ago and he would not subject Brand to the extra strain of carrying him. Since then he had taken turns with Dino to ride the mule while the other led the horse. Dino had wanted him to ride the mule all the time, but he had seen how the lad’s face had hollowed. He had never been fat, but the privations of the last weeks had reduced him to muscle and bone. None of them were in better condition. The victory at Dorylaeum had taken place on the first day of July. Now, it was October. The plentiful food looted from the Turkish camp at Dorylaeum had run out at the end of the first month and since then they had travelled through countryside which had become progressively more barren. The animals had suffered the worst. The camels which had originally carried the Arslan Kilij’s treasure had been the first go, killed for meat. Many of the donkeys and mules had gone the same way. Marc’s palfrey and his new battle mare had both succumbed and he now rode the pony which had been Aymar’s, while Aymar was mounted on one of the pack donkeys. Around them, many knights rode mules and ponies so small that their feet touched the ground and one or two were even mounted on cows. Thin and filthy,
they were a scarecrow army.

  Bohemond beckoned to Ranulph. ‘You know the area. Is that the only bridge over the river?’

  ‘There is another, close under the city walls, leading to one of the gates. But that will be well defended. To reach the city we must either ford the river, which I would not advise, or force that bridge below us.’

  Bohemond nodded and turned to Robert, his standard bearer. ‘Find the other princes and ask them to meet me in council.’

  While the army rested, gazing with hungry eyes at the plenty below them, the leaders gathered on a hilltop. Tatikios, who was still with them, spoke first.

  ‘A hundred years ago the forces of the then emperor recaptured Antioch from those who had sought to wrest it from his grasp. It was done not by direct assault but by cutting off supplies. The army encamped at Baghram, some twelve miles from here and between the city and the sea. It was not quick, but it worked in the end.’