Shadows on a Sword (15 page)

“There are many who regard him as a symbol. He was one of the first to follow the pope’s call for a crusade.”

“And a fine mess he made of it,” Emma replied. She was sitting slumped in front of her tent, hood low over her eyes, wiping dust off Centurion’s bridle. Her words were low and dispirited.

“We could not have allowed him to leave. It would have caused widespread disillusionment. Too many people are deserting us as it is.” But privately, Theo agreed with Emma. The monk raged and disagreed with every decision the crusaders made. He was more of a nuisance than anything else.

The crusaders could not think of attacking the city until siege engines and mangonels had been constructed, and supplies for those machines had to come from the emperor Alexius. But the bridge of boats was built. Theo and Amalric watched the procedure with amazement. First, the boats themselves were constructed. Flat-bottomed and sturdy, they were lashed together, side by side, from one bank of the river to the other. Then planks were laid across them. When that was completed, a steady, floating bridge spanned the river, strong enough to support knights on horseback.

“Perhaps we have underestimated Taticius and his engineers,” Theo remarked to Amalric, as the bridge took shape under their eyes.

As soon as it was completed, the first sortie across was planned.

“It is just what we need,” Bohemond told the assembled princes and knights. “A battle to restore our flagging spirits! We will slip out tomorrow before daybreak.”

The meeting was being held in Bishop Adhemar’s tent. Theo sat at his foster father’s side. Godfrey was present as well, but lounged to one side, supported by cushions. He was finally recovering from his illness, but was still weak.

“My scouts tell me that more Turks, under Ridwan of Aleppo, are massing to come to the aid of Antioch,” Bohemond said. “They will travel along the road from Aleppo and try to cross the Iron Bridge to the east of us. We will be waiting for them. The infantry will remain in camp to contain any sortie from the city,” he continued. “We will take up our position on the other side of the river. Ridwan knows not that we have the means of crossing it now. When he arrives, he will meet a surprise!”

In the darkest hour before dawn, the crusaders snuck out of their camp. Some of the horses balked at stepping onto the floating bridge, but Theo had no trouble with Centurion. The warhorse tested it with one massive forefoot, snuffed at it, then gave his wiry gray mane a shake and moved forward without further hesitation.

The need for absolute silence was paramount. If the Turkish sentries on the walls realized what the crusaders were doing, they would send scouts to warn Ridwan. In front of him and behind him, Theo could hear muffled curses in the black, early morning drizzle. The horses’ hooves thudded dully on the wet wood. All metal pieces on bridles and reins had been swathed in cloth to prevent jingling. It was as if an army of ghosts was making its way in the mist across the floating bridge.

Once across, they guided their horses along the northern bank of the river until they reached a hilly outcrop just before the Iron Bridge, out of sight of any Turkish scouts. They took up their position between the river and the Lake of Antioch. In complete silence, they closed up their ranks and waited. It was still the blackest of nights. The cold, unrelenting rain drummed down upon them.

“Why in God’s name were we ever cautioned against the sun in Syria?” a voice muttered at Theo’s side. He looked over to see Stephen of Blois hunched down into the saddle of his charger. Water streamed down his helmet and made a steady waterfall off the iron nosepiece.

The first traces of dawn began to lighten the sky to the east. Just as the blackness changed to gray, the noise of an approaching army could be heard. Careless and confident, Ridwan’s troops made no attempt to be silent.

Trumpets shattered the air. Knights and warhorses were galvanized into action. Theo felt Centurion charge forward before he gave the command. He raised his shield, settled his lance and braced himself for the heavy, bone-shaking lurch of Centurion’s gallop. His stomach knotted, but an almost overwhelming joy flooded over him and blotted out everything else. At last, after months of inaction, starvation and bickering. At last!

The crusaders hit the mass of Turkish soldiers before the advancing army realized what was happening. They gave the Turkish archers no chance to form into lines; they had learned only too well how fearsomely effective the rain of arrows from those archers was. The charge did not break the Turks, however. The trumpets blew for a retreat and the knights withdrew. The Turks, sensing victory, raced after them—and fell straight into a trap that the leaders had cleverly conceived in Adhemar’s tent the night before. The crusaders had now lured the Turks onto the very terrain where they wanted them. The lake on the left and the river on the right prevented the great numbers of Turks from surging around the crusaders and outflanking them. With the Turks pressed together in the narrow tract facing them, the crusaders charged.

Theo thrust and thrust again. In the heat of battle, there was no time for thought. It was strike and kill, or be struck and killed. He swung his sword, felt it sink into flesh. At the same time, he felt a blow to his shoulder that almost made him drop his shield. A spray of blood blinded him. He did not know whether it was his adversary’s or his own, but in the frenzy of battle he felt no pain. The familiar silence enveloped him. He thrust and cut in a world without noise, a world without screams. He did not even hear the wild, barbaric cries that burst from his own throat.

The Turks broke. They turned and fled.

There was wild celebration in the camp that night. Theo submitted impatiently to Emma’s bandaging of his shoulder wound, and then, for the first time, he allowed Amalric to lead him off to the festivities. There, he listened to the boasting and telling of tales of the deeds of the day that grew more and more grand with each horn of wine quaffed. There, the battle as it had really been gradually ascended into the realm of myth and glory; became battle as it was supposed to be. For the first time, the sickness that always attacked Theo after fighting did not overwhelm him. He lost himself in the firelight, the comradeship of fellow warriors, the wine. For the first time, he could forget the feel of his sword sinking into flesh, and the sight of dying eyes staring into his own.

He returned to his tent just before daybreak the next day, befuddled by the wine and the chaos of the celebration. Unseen, in the shadows of the tent where she had been waiting, Emma watched him stagger in.

With the construction of the bridge, the road to St. Symeon, the Christian port on the sea, was now open to the crusaders. They began to receive supplies sent by ship by the emperor Alexius. A fleet manned by Englishmen and led by Edgar Atheling, the exiled claimant to the English throne, sailed into the port, loaded with siege materials and mechanics sent by the emperor. At last, they could begin to build the machines necessary for the taking of the city.

Hunger was still prevalent, but the famine had been relieved somewhat by the emperor’s supplies. Skirmishes between the Turks and the crusaders occurred daily, with great losses on both sides, but gradually the crusaders were able to build towers to guard all the bridges into Antioch. When the final one was completed, the Turks in the city were finally cut off. No convoys of food could reach them now, and the inhabitants could no longer send their flocks to pasture outside the walls. No further sorties could be mounted against the crusaders. The tide began to turn.

Spring came. Almost two years had passed since Godfrey and his crusaders had left their homes in the Ardennes. Theo wondered briefly how his father and brother fared, but he gave them little thought. They seemed part of another, distant world, one that he would probably never see again. His world now was the world of the crusaders. His family was Count Garnier, Amalric and the other men he rode beside every day and stormed into battle with. And Emma. But his feelings about her were so mixed—it was easier just to put them out of his mind. Besides, there was so much else to think about. The rains ceased. Food became plentiful.

“We can do it now,” Theo exulted. “We can starve them into submission.” There was a hardness in his voice that was new.

Emma stared back at him without answering. Her cough had gone and color was beginning to return to her face, but she was still thin and weak. If she had been quieter and somewhat distant since the night of the battle with Ridwan’s army, Theo hadn’t noticed.

H
e did, however, notice with a mounting irritation Emma’s frequent absences from the campsite. Spring burned into summer. No longer did Stephen of Blois complain about the lack of sun. The June heat was intense, more searing than Theo could have imagined. It bounced and shimmered off the walls. The knights were forced to wear linen coverings over their mail and helmets because the metal became too hot to touch.

As always, the camp was alive with rumors. One was that the Turk Kerbogha was advancing. But this news was more fact than rumor, Theo believed, as did a great number of crusaders. The stories of Kerbogha’s might and cruelty spread throughout the camp, creating panic. He would fall on them from the rear. The garrison would emerge and cut them down from the city. No one would escape. They would all be massacred.

More and more deserters began to slip away during the concealing hours of darkness. The lords and their knights issued commands and posted guards, only to find each morning that the guards had deserted as well. Clearly, the time had come when they must either attack or retreat.

Amalric slipped into Theo’s campsite early one morning.

“Bohemond has a plan,” he said. He looked around cautiously. “It is a secret; no one must hear of it. Where is Emma?”

“She is not here,” Theo answered. He cast an annoyed glance at Centurion, who had not yet been groomed. Where was Emma, anyway?

As if to echo his irritation, Centurion blasted out a snort that sent Emma’s nag skittering.

Theo thrust Emma out of his mind. “What kind of plan?”

“There is a man,” Amalric said, his voice low. “He is an Armenian, a Christian now converted to Islam. He is a captain inside the city. His name is Firouz. He has a high position in Yaghi-Siyan’s government, or so he claims. He has been loyal so far, but now he is angry. His master fined him for hoarding grain, and he is beginning to regret his conversion. He wishes to come back to the true faith. He has got in touch with Bohemond through a Christian in our camp—Arnulf, a blacksmith.”

Theo looked up, surprised.

“What?” Amalric asked.

“Nothing,” Theo answered. “I know the man, that is all. He is to be trusted, I think. Go on.”

“Well,” Amalric continued, “Firouz will sell the city to us. To Bohemond, anyway. I have some suspicions about this need for secrecy. It smells to me as if Bohemond is plotting to be in command when the fighting is all over.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Theo answered. “And I could not care less. Someone will have to govern.”

“Why should it be Bohemond? My lord is equally fit to govern.”

“Bohemond and the other lords have never stopped arguing about who is in command of this crusade since we left Constantinople. I, for one, am sick of the squabbling. What does it matter?” Theo jumped to his feet and strode over to Centurion. He began to groom the horse with quick, angry strokes. When Centurion turned his great head and glowered at him, Theo moderated his touch.

“It matters—” Amalric began, but at that moment Emma appeared.

Startled, she stopped and pulled her hood farther down over her face, then relaxed as she recognized Amalric. The two of them had come to a truce that was beginning to develop into actual friendship. She would have greeted him, but Theo interrupted.

“Where have you been? Centurion has not been groomed. The morning fire has not been kindled.”

Emma shrugged. “I had business of my own.”

“You are my groom. Your only business is my business,” Theo snapped back. In the morning light, he saw a flush rise to her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I spoke hastily. I meant not …”

“You are quite right,” Emma replied. Her voice was cold. “I must not forget that I am the servant of such a great warrior.” She bent to the fire and made a show of arranging sticks and kindling.

Amalric looked from one to the other and raised his eyebrows. “A lovers’ spat?” He laughed.

Both Theo and Emma whipped around to glare at him.

“Mercy! It was said in jest. I give you my apologies!” He turned to go, then half turned back. “Come to Godfrey’s tent this evening, Theo. There will be news by then, I am certain of it.”

They did not have to wait that long. Shortly after the noon meal and prayers, a herald galloped around the camp, trumpet blaring. They were to prepare for a raid into enemy territory at sunset. Even as Theo and Emma began organizing his equipment, Theo puzzled over the summons. Why a raid just now, when they should be preparing to attack the city itself?

“It may be a bluff,” Emma said, polishing Centurion’s bridle and testing a suspected weak spot in the leather.

She seemed to be right. Or perhaps the secret had not been kept as well as Bohemond had wished. Secret or not, the news had probably traveled, as news was wont to do, throughout the web of servants and grooms. Somehow Emma had learned how to tap into that web, despite her pretended muteness.

Another messenger followed more quietly, bidding the nobles and their knights to assemble in Bohemond’s tent.

“Firouz is in command of one of the wall towers—the Tower of the Two Sisters, they call it,” Bohemond announced when they had all gathered. “He is ready to betray the city. He urges us to mount our attack on the walls at that spot. He will give over the tower to us, and then we can seize the others.”

Theo’s blood began to beat more loudly in his ears and he felt the now familiar excitement rising within him. His fingers opened and closed on the hilt of his sword as Bohemond outlined the plan for the next day. The urge to withdraw the weapon was almost overpowering.