Jack Ludlow: Soldier of Crusade

‘My father was ever keen to surprise his enemies and in that I am no different.’

‘I think you flatter these hill tribesmen when you term them enemies. They are a rabble not a host.’

‘They are like an itch I cannot scratch and I mean to end what they are about, for the losses we are sustaining are not to be borne, especially with horses.’

‘Alexius Comnenus will provide replacements from the imperial stud when we get to Constantinople.’

‘Trained destriers?’

‘Horseflesh as good as.’

‘No, Tancred, even an emperor cannot do that. They do not breed in Byzantium the kind of mounts on which we rely. Horses to ride, yes, pack animals in abundance, I am sure, but those that can face an unbroken line of enemy lances with horns blowing, shields clashing and not flinch?’

‘Then let us hope you succeed, for if you do not we could lose more tonight than we have had stolen on the march so far.’

They were the bait, mounts the tribes knew were the most valuable to the Normans, now at pasture in an area where they looked to be a target for theft, animals just as valued by the raiders but for different reasons. A horse able to carry a fully mailed and equipped Norman knight into battle, men of some stature who were also heavy in their equipment, were the very kind of creatures to cope easily with the routes between high hills and deep valleys of the Macedonian uplands. Destriers were bred and trained to be fearless and they were not high in the shoulder either, another benefit to clansmen who tended to be short in the leg.

In so persistently questioning what Bohemund proposed to do, Tancred knew he was close to exceeding his standing and openly acknowledged it now; he might be second in command but there was a serious age difference of seventeen years. He had served by Bohemund’s side for a long time, first as a squire and then as he grew to manhood, as his right-hand shield. Even so, care had to be exercised when questioning the actions of any commander and he feared what he was saying was close to insubordinate.

That got him a huge hand on his shoulder and a squeeze. ‘Never fear to question me, you of all people, Tancred, for your bloodline more than permits you the right. Your mother is as much of the Guiscard ’s blood as I and, I think, had Emma been of our sex she would have made a formidable soldier.’

Tancred grinned, the firelight picking up white teeth in a weather-darkened face that took the sun like his Lombard father; if he had loved and esteemed the man known as the Good Marquis of Monteroni he was doubly proud of being the grandson of Robert, Duke of Apulia.

‘You may live to regret saying that.’

‘You’ll know when I do, for I’ll fetch you a buffet round the ears as I was obliged to do when you were younger. Now make sure once we are departed that those tribesfolk do not surprise us by employing boats too. Guard the shore and guard it well and make sure the men near the grazing fields know what to do when they hear my shout.’

Bohemund grabbed his sword and strode down to where his men, equally armed, were gathered, stooping at the water’s edge to scoop up some mud, which he rubbed vigorously into his skin. Seeing this, the men he was leading did likewise and with a minimal amount of residual light they manned the boats and cast off, rowing in a wide and Stygian arc to a pre-chosen landing spot, arrived at by using those faintly silhouetted mountain tops. As ever, at the prospect of action, blood seemed to course faster than normal through Bohemund’s veins, and using a route he had studied so hard it was imprinted in his mind, marked by the shapes of bushes and trees, he led his men to where he thought he could spring his trap.

First the party had each to find an individual spot in which they could comfortably stay, somewhere whereby their stillness would allow any wildlife to become accustomed to and begin to ignore their presence, with either a bush or a tree to protect their backs and sat so each would be alone with their own thoughts, for there could be no talking and being elevated in terms of rank made no difference — Bohemund was as privy to such meanderings as any man alive, in his case a stream of memories of battles, sieges, raids carried out on fast-riding horses, not destriers, of friendships made and promises broken in a world where allegiances shifted with the wind. What it did not do was interfere with the acuity of his hearing.

Even the most skilled intruder moving over a night-time landscape will make a noise — the snap of a branch, even a twig, the rustling of dead leaves and in some cases, though not this one, a quiet curse to acknowledge the pain of kneeling on a stone or cracking an elbow against something unseen. These hill tribesmen were children of the country in which they lived, who had started out playing as a game what they were now undertaking with serious intent. Had the wind not been coming off the lake and over the horse lines they would have picked up the strong scent of their adversaries, a blend of human odours added to a mixture of ingrained horse sweat and leather.

Bohemund had his sword raised before his face, the cold steel of the blade touching his nose, in his other hand a small stone he had gathered, now as warm as his flesh, aware that there were intruders crawling by, probably within touching distance though not in sight. It is easy for imagination to provide clues to what is not there but having soldiered since he was barely breeched he had enough experience to discern the difference between the real and the illusory. Now it was time for his nose to twitch at the rank smell of an unwashed body tinged with a smoky tang that spoke of a man who spent too much time near a wood fire in a place where there was the lack of a decent chimney.

To move so slowly in the dark required great discipline and Bohemund was seeing in his mind’s eye what the tribesman he could smell was doing. First a sweep must be made of the ground in front, a slow arc of movement to identify potential obstacles or objects to be circumvented or, if it were a high growing weed or rushes, flattened. The next advance would be no more than the distance that arm could reach and then the exercise would need to be repeated. Touch a tree by its bark and the crawler would have to decide to go right or left, seeking, from the memory of a long day’s observation of this very terrain, the best alternative; make no noise on the way to your quarry, knowing you can make as much as you like in reverse.

Whoever had been close to Bohemund was past him now, his nostrils full of the mixed odours of disturbed plant life as well as the munching destriers and he had to calculate how long to wait. Like his knights the intruders would be spread out in a long line; concentration in numbers was too dangerous, for the exposure of one meant the rest would be required to either withdraw quietly or flee noisily. In the end it was the lack of sound that decided him, the certainty that a decent gap had been opened up between those silently waiting and the crawling raiders.

Cautiously he stood, making no sound until he was fully upright. The single loud ping of the stone on his sword blade enough to alert his men and if it would bring to a halt those they were intent on foiling he hoped it would make them pause for only a second, to wait for a repeat. Lacking such a thing should induce them to carry on for Bohemund wanted them close to the horse lines and their eyes as strained as their thoughts before he took any action.

He was blessed with a voice that matched his size and weight, so when he shouted it carried far enough to seem to bounce off the walls of the surrounding mountains. In an instant the ground in front, some fifty paces distant, seemed to explode as the oil with which the ground had been soaked burst into flame. There was no darkness now and the intruders who stood up in shock were silhouetted against the blazing brushwood that had been laid as soon as the light faded. Behind those flames stood a line of mailed Norman knights, the swords reflecting now bright red to orange from the conflagration.