Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

‘What does it matter?’ Raymond’s single eye swept around the gathering. ‘I am too old to be kept waiting in the cold by a Norman whelp.’

‘Without Bohemond there is nothing to discuss.’

Raymond’s face flushed an angry red under his irongrey beard. ‘Are we beholden to one man? Are we children without Bohemond’s hand to guide us? Bishop Adhemar, rest his soul, used to preach that the only commander of the Army of God is God Himself. I do not think that includes Bohemond — unless he has added divinity to his self-appointed honours.’

Several of the princes looked uneasy at the impiety of this suggestion. Tancred merely laughed, and murmured audibly, ‘I would not put it past my uncle.’

His comment drew a disapproving stare from Duke Godfrey, and surprised looks from the others. Unabashed, Tancred continued, ‘I agree with Count Raymond. If my uncle wishes to come then he will be here. He would not want us to delay on his account: he knows our cause is greater than any single man.’ A smile curled at the edge of his lips. ‘Even him.’

‘Then it is decided.’ Raymond turned and strode towards the church without looking back. The others hesitated, glancing at each other in indecision. No one made to follow Raymond until he was more than halfway across the square, a proud and lonely figure in the dirty snow. Then, like a gaggle of unruly children, they made their way into the church.

Once, during the great trials at Antioch, the princes’ councils had been commonplace affairs, consumed with questions of detail and the care of the army. In those desperate times a short prayer from Bishop Adhemar had sufficed to consecrate the occasion, and the only men in attendance had been the princes and their closest aides. Now, a bishop led a full mass in Latin while all the princes’ followers crowded into the church. When the service was over, a space was cleared in the middle of the church and the crowd penned back by four benches set in a square. In its centre, on a marble pedestal, sat the golden reliquary which held the fragment of the holy lance. I noticed many of the princes refused to look at it as they seated themselves, fidgeting under the eyes of the crowd and staring at the empty space where Bohemond should have been. I took my place behind Nikephoros, and thereafter whispered all that was said in his ear.

The bishop, whom I did not recognise but who sounded like a Provencal, began with a long and disjointed speech invoking the glorious deeds the Franks had worked. Had they not fought four great battles against the impious Saracens and — with God’s aid — prevailed every time? Had they not taken the fortress city of Antioch, which all men thought impregnable, and then defended it against the mightiest army of Ishmaelites the world had ever seen? Had God not bestowed miracles — true miracles — to demonstrate His favour?

It was not an inspiring speech. After five minutes of it, Nikephoros signalled I did not need to translate any more. The bishop’s oratory mixed extravagant hyperbole with flat-footed phrases, and dwelt too long on events that were known to every man there, so that it seemed even the most extraordinary feats must have been tedious and banal affairs. Each time the bishop mentioned Antioch, Raymond’s head twitched with annoyance, and when he invoked the holy lance as the climax of his argument, several of the princes smirked openly. In the packed space around us, I heard yawns and muttering.

A crack like thunder on the outer door shattered the tedium in the church and silenced the hapless bishop. The double doors swung in as if giant hands had thrown them open, and a dazzling light flooded in to the gloomy chamber. Silhouetted against the glare, the huge figure of Bohemond sat in the centre of the doorway on a pale horse. Even in a congregation of battle-hardened knights, several men cried out with fear.

Bohemond urged his horse forward into the church. Its hooves rang on the flagstones and echoed off the dome above. All the princes were on their feet, staring at the newcorner. He rode a little way into the sanctuary, then swung down from his saddle, thrust its bridle into the hands of a gaping bystander and strode through the throng. It opened before him like a well-oiled door. The mottled red skin on his face was livid, engorged by excitement and the attention of the crowd, while a wicked grin pinched the edges of his mouth. A blood-red cloak flowed from his shoulders, and where it parted over his chest a sliver of silvered armour gleamed through.

Count Raymond stood and faced Bohemond across the square, two bears in a ring. The old man’s chest rose and fell under his fur cloak, his face riven with anger.

‘Bohemond.’ Stark syllables spat out the name. ‘Are you so grand now that God Himself must wait for you?’

Bohemond shrugged. Rings of armour rippled beneath his cloak like serpent’s scales. ‘If I have offended the council, I am sorry. Truly. In my haste to be here I lamed my horse and had to find another.’

Count Raymond stared pointedly at the horse, which still stood obediently in the doorway. It was a battle charger, a white stallion that had carried Bohemond into every battle we had fought. In the snow and ice that covered the ground, he would not have ridden it more than a hundred yards.

Duke Godfrey rose, stretching out his arms so that he bridged the space between the two antagonists. ‘We are grateful you came. We will need our full strength if we are to confront the challenges God asks of us.’

Raymond looked as if he would happily have lifted Duke Godfrey and thrown him at Bohemond in fury. Instead, he swallowed his anger and sat back down on his bench. Godfrey and Bohemond did likewise, Bohemond taking his seat on the opposite side of the square to Raymond. When he had arranged the folds of his cloak behind him and smoothed them down, he turned to the bishop with a mocking gleam in his eye.

‘My apologies, Your Grace. I think perhaps my late arrival interrupted you.’

The bishop’s mouth flapped open; his head popped forward like a man trying to force a cough, but he made no sound.

‘The bishop was reminding us of our sacred obligation to march on Jerusalem,’ said Godfrey.

Bohemond looked puzzled. ‘Had any of us forgotten it?’ His gaze touched on Count Raymond, who sat up with indignation.

‘I have not forgotten my duty. I have not spent the last six months sitting in Antioch.’

‘Only because my men threw you out.’

The crowd around us bridled at Bohemond’s jibe, muttering their displeasure like spectators in the hippodrome. Though scattered among the jeers I heard laughter, and several men squawking like chickens. They could not have been Bohemond’s knights, for he had brought none.

‘Antioch does not belong to you,’ snapped Raymond, upset by the noise.

‘Come and claim it, if you want it. I will be ready for you.’ Bohemond tapped a fist against his waist, where his sword should have been. ‘But I did not come here to talk about Antioch. I thought our object was Jerusalem. Perhaps Count Raymond has forgotten that.’

‘Antioch and Jerusalem are inseparable.’ The Count of Flanders, one of the lesser princes, pronounced what everyone knew. ‘If we cannot agree how to leave Antioch, then there is little point discussing how we reach Jerusalem.’

The hapless bishop, all but forgotten, rose to his feet. Raymond was quicker.

‘Why dance around the truth? The Count of Flanders is right. Bohemond holds Antioch in defiance of our oaths to the emperor, and of all our claims. If he does not surrender it to us, we will stay here until he compels us.’

‘Do not speak too freely for other men,’ Godfrey cautioned him. ‘I besieged Antioch for eight months and led my men in the battle against Kerbogha. By rights of conquest, I have as much claim as any man to Antioch. But I renounce it. I would rather have ten minutes’ prayer in the Holy Sepulchre than a lifetime owning all the lands and riches of Antioch. Who else can say the same?’