Jack Ludlow: Prince of Legend

Noting that some of the Crusaders’ heavier ballistae were of a size to batter their walls, that was countered by the hanging of skeins of thick knotted rope from the battlements, as well as sacks filled with wheat chaff, both to deaden the impact.

Added to that, if there was a lack of actual attacks to keep the whole in a state of nervousness, there was no shortage of attempts at terrorisation. One of Godfrey’s cousins, le Bourg, on a foraging expedition captured a venerable Muslim, a noble-looking fellow of advanced years and some eminence, for when he was paraded before the garrison of Jerusalem it was clear he was recognised. Not that such recognition altered his fate; to show them the destiny that awaited those watching, given he had refused to convert to Christianity he was summarily beheaded.

A Fatimid spy caught trying to slip into Jerusalem was crudely tortured for information, not that anything he provided would affect his ultimate fate. He was tied to one of the heavier mangonels that was hauled to full torsion, then released, to send his body, it was hoped, over the battlements. As an experiment it was not a complete failure: if he did not overreach the walls it was moot if the result was any more comforting, for he crashed into the stone face, then fell onto the rocks below, his neck broken and his body shattered.

The Fatimids were short on the means to reply in kind, but they were just as keen to trouble their enemies, who — and to their mind this was blasphemy — used symbols in their religion. Thus crucifixes were hung upside down from the ramparts, onto which, in full view of the Crusaders, the Muslim’s spat and urinated, acts that aroused, at least to them, a pleasing amount of loud fury.

In the midst of continuing mutual antagonism, there was no shortage of preachers willing to see in their dreams and visions portents that warned of either disaster or glorious victory. One, yet another Peter, this time called Desiderius, claimed to have been granted a revelation by none other than the late and sainted Ademar, Bishop of Puy. Given he was close to Raymond of Toulouse, who had sought to use the memory of the papal legate to replace the failure to inspire by the discredited Holy Lance, his prophetic messages were greeted with some scepticism.

‘I see us plagued with too many Peters,’ Tancred opined, on his way to the pavilion in which the council met, well aware of what was to be discussed. ‘There must be some pile of ordure out of which they do not crawl.’

Flanders, who felt the same way, laughed. ‘Perhaps, one day, we will truly be granted a miracle.’

‘If there was one thing my Uncle Bohemund taught me it was that it was folly to even think the Lord might actually intervene in a battle. He saw it as the stuff of the deluded.’

‘Even after Antioch?’

Tancred patted his right arm. ‘That was won with these, Robert — it was not due to some flaming vision that we triumphed, regardless of what our divines say.’

Yet for all their doubts regarding that to which they were about to be exposed, both men knew that lip service had to be paid to such notions when they came from such preaching sources. They believed with all their hearts in the divine oversight of God the Almighty and were sure he did play a part in their endeavours. When they celebrated Mass it was in the sure knowledge that he could see into their hearts and judge their motives, and if at times they were less than pure, then all they could do was seek his all-encompassing forgiveness.

To kill was a sin, yet they did it as a vocation, sure that the slaying of God’s enemies would be seen not with condemnation, but as a route to salvation. It was in the manifestation of that forgiveness and insight that they held doubts: the Holy Trinity, the Blessed Virgin and all the saints would bless their sword arm as they used them to press home the true faith, but did such messages as might be sent to them come as a flaming horseman riding to their support on the field of battle, as had been claimed so many times, or through the certainties of preachers like Desiderius or Bartholomew?

‘The meaning of my dream was obvious,’ Desiderius insisted. ‘Ademar demands that we find harmony in our endeavour and he seeks this in death just as he did in life.’

‘Amen,’ intoned Narbonne, crossing himself, an act and expression dutifully followed by all present.

‘Therefore he insists we must fast, we must look into our inner souls and see what is there. Is it truly that we are here before Jerusalem in the service of our Lord God, or are you great lords here merely to add lustre to your names and riches to your strongbox? Alms must be donated to show that is a false accusation, yet some of the host are so sinful, as are the pilgrims who look to me for guidance, that nothing short of scourging by whipping will cleanse them.’

‘Harmony we need,’ Godfrey exclaimed, his eyes alight with a genuine fervour that aroused nothing but admiration in those observing. ‘Tell us, Peter Desiderius, how it is to be found.’

The solution, according to the preacher, was a procession in which all would participate regardless of rank. This would be carried out barefoot and in solemn and continuous prayer, each man examining his own soul for the sins that resided there, for no man was without it. Trumpets and horns would blow and perhaps, as at Jericho, the walls would crack and tumble.

‘Will it be so,’ cried Godfrey, with such passion he seemed about to go into a frenzy.

Desiderius seemed to realise he had gone too far and the offer of crumbling walls was withdrawn on the grounds that Jerusalem was not Jericho and he was not Joshua. But there would be feet washing, with noble dukes and counts, as well as high church divines emulating Jesus Christ, who did not so fear to humble himself with the lowly.

Such supplications agreed, the procession set out on a sunlit morning to march round the walls to the Mount of Olives, threatening the jeering garrison with what weapons they bore, there to watch Godfrey very willingly, Raymond reluctantly and the rest of the lords with manufactured zeal, wash the feet of the meanest pilgrim peasants Desiderius could identify. Mass was said on the spot of Christ’s resurrection and the nobles were called forward to make peace with each other in the sight of his grace.

To much rejoicing Godfrey, expression alight, embraced Raymond who then shook arms with Tancred, both men vowing to aid the other to the point of death if need be, an undertaking repeated to Normandy, Flanders and Gaston of Bearn. All around, anything that smacked of enmity was being put aside, Apulians swearing loyalty to Provence and vice versa, the pledging of their souls and their blood by both to the knights of Lotharingia.

Shriven and feeling bolstered by the obvious grace of God, the procession made its way back to their lines. The Fatimids showed how much they cared for what had taken place and how much such obvious faith affected them by showering the march with arrows and catapulted rocks, killing several of the worshippers, including several priests.

‘Two days hence,’ Godfrey swore, ‘you will pay for that insult to us and to God.’

‘We will strip the skin off their bones,’ Raymond added, his arm clasped in that of his so recent rival. ‘They cannot see into our souls, but we will see into theirs.’

The Fatimids knew the Crusaders were coming long before dawn, just from the noise of their preparations, added to the amount of darting torchlight that had illuminated their night-time activity. They were at their places while it was still dark, sweating on what was a hot and humid mid-July night, nervously awaiting the final sound that would bring on the assault — the sound of the battle horns blowing the advance.