Soldier of Crusade (4 page)

Collectively they had wrested South Italy from Byzantium and stymied the King of the Germans, the so-called Western Emperor. The de Hautevilles had overawed and humbled a succession of popes and many times they had fought such enemies, Byzantium included, individually; more seriously they had been obliged to face them in varying combinations where luck and enemy dissension had played as much a part in victory as Norman fighting skill.

To the men Bohemund led it was as if all this ability had been distilled into one man. None could doubt his Norman heritage and not just because of his height and colouring. In single combat he had no peer and as a commander of men he cemented their allegiance by example and his selfless acts of individual bravery. If amongst his captains there were many who would dispute with him, for the Normans were by nature a fractious race, to the rank and file Bohemund of Taranto was the greatest of his tribe. On this day, with the light fading, he was preparing to embellish that
reputation by undertaking a task many would have delegated to others.

‘Let me face an army in battle before much more of this.’

These words were uttered as he stripped off his top clothing to leave himself in dark-brown smock and breeches, an act that in these high mountains made the heat from the nearby fire welcome. Not that he could get too close, for he did not want to be seen, not that anyone trying to observe such a large encampment would have found such a thing easy. They were spread along the western shores of Lake Ohrid, where the old Roman road skirted the edge of a stretch of water so long the other end was invisible in daylight.

‘This is no task for you, Bohemund.’

Looking at his nephew Bohemund just grinned as he slipped a long dagger into a sheath in his belt. ‘I cannot bear to be so pricked by these people, Tancred, and do nothing.’

‘What you should do and I tire of saying it, is order others to undertake what you propose to do yourself. You risk the whole enterprise when you risk yourself.’

‘I have not swung my sword in anger since we left Amalfi, so it is time to see if it still performs as it should.’

‘Take it out on a tree trunk.’

‘I’d rather cut a human trunk in two and from neck joint to crutch.’

If that came with a smile, both men knew it to be possible. Tancred’s uncle carried an accumulation of muscle that over near forty years, since he could first wield a wooden sword as a mewling child, had become directed to the act of killing by either axe, mace or sword most of his Lombard levies would struggle to even swing. Added to that, Bohemund never ceased to hone his skills and neither did his confrères; even on the march a little time was set aside for the practice
of the art of combat, the daily ritual of swordplay, lance work and mounted control that made the Normans the most formidable of warriors.

‘Your father would not do this.’

‘He might have done so, Tancred, when he was younger and less concerned with affairs of state, for he was ever mischievous.’

‘He was cunning and wise. This is neither.’

Others who had also stripped off their outer clothing, twenty lances in all, were making for a part of the shore where no fires burned and where the fishing boats Bohemund had ordered to be commandeered from the local lake dwellers, who had come to sell their catch, were assembled. Beyond that lay unlit black water, for the skies had clouded over for the first time in days to obscure both moon and stars, though there was a modicum of light that allowed to be made out the outline of the surrounding mountains.

‘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.

Those who had got to their feet had no option but to try to flee and thus they provided easy kills for the line of men they could now see standing between them and safety. But the real problem lay with those not prone to panic, for as Bohemund closed the distance between himself and that line of fire, he knew that in the undergrowth were hidden men with sharp knives and little hope. Again his voice boomed out, telling his men to employ their blades like scythes to root out those in hiding, who had only one hope: that they could wound then move so swiftly when discovered as to get past those seeking to cut them down.

With senses heightened to the level needed to stay alive in battle, Bohemund picked up the flash of a knife blade as it swept towards his lower leg, the aim to so maim him that he would be unable to easily control his weapons and certainly with his ankle tendons sliced be unable to run in pursuit. Swiftly moving his leg out of the way he swung at what was no more than an outline on the ground, aware as soon as his sword struck flesh that he had done so, not just for the cry that came up to his ears but for the way the contact between steel and bone jarred his forearm.

All around him his men were doing the same, either flushing out their quarry and cutting them down as they sought to flee or skewering them as they lay still on the ground. There was no mercy given and none received, for two of his men took knives in the vital parts of their guts from men desperate to escape. As the flames died down the men on the Lake Ohrid side of the fires pushed their way through to add to the depth of slaughter until it seemed there was no one left to kill. Yet Bohemund doubted that to be the case; it was dark, one or two of the tribesmen would manage to escape. So be it,
they would pass back that raiding the lines of the Norman host was a game too deadly to play.

‘Tomorrow at first light we will gather up the bodies, to be hung from trees at every league on our line of march. Let the tribes up ahead have a warning of what they face should they seek to steal from us.’

‘And I say John Comnenus too,’ Tancred later insisted, for he was strongly of the opinion that the
topoterites
or even his uncle the Emperor had encouraged such raids.

‘Perhaps,’ Bohemund acknowledged. ‘But content yourself that you will never know the true answer to that.’

‘Perhaps we will find out when we get to Constantinople.’

Bohemund shrugged. ‘By then this will be history and of no account.’

‘It will tell us how we are viewed.’

‘That we know already.’

T
he Apulians knew they were being trailed by part of the garrison of Durazzo and if their presence was an irritant it could be no more than that. Previously invisible, the pursuit had only come into view because of the time it took to make a difficult crossing of the River Vardar, so swollen that even at the point at which it could be forded it was flowing fast. For mounted men that presented little difficulty, for those on foot the rigging of manropes strung between driven-in stakes acted as an aid. But getting the carts and livestock across would take time, so Bohemund led his main body away so as not to churn up and make impassable the eastern riverbank, though he left a small rearguard on the western side lest the men sent by John Comnenus be tempted by the sight of so much easy plunder.

If the aim was to hurry them on their way, in that they failed utterly, as much from the acts of their own commander as any other factor. Thanks to John Comnenus and the time given to act upon his
instructions, supplies had ceased to be plentiful and that meant no haste was possible; the army was required to forage and buy, which slowed progress, none of which much troubled the man in command. He moved at his own pace and went out of his way to be pleasant and courteous to those Byzantine officials and traders with whom he was obliged to do business, which aided him in building up a picture of the present state of the imperial domains.

The empire was stronger than the times in which he had campaigned previously; if Alexius had been a brand-new emperor in the days when the Apulians had first encountered him in battle he had not only survived invasion but had also taken a firmer grip on the imperial possessions than his recent predecessors, most notably in terms of tax collection, reputed to be ferocious. This revenue, for centuries, had served as the bedrock of imperial power, the Eastern Roman Empire being fabulously wealthy if properly administered.

It lay at the hub of the trade route between East and West and with the customs duties that brought in, Byzantium could gather so much gold and treasure to its coffers and had accumulated so much over the eight hundred years of its existence, that even after a great defeat like Manzikert, a degree of safety could be bought by the hiring of mercenaries, usually from the very enemies the empire had been fighting.

That was the kind of force Alexius now mustered. Led by Greek generals his army consisted of few natives, more of mercenary Pechenegs and Bulgars, even a contingent of Turkish archers, while at the peak stood the Varangians, the personal guardians of the Emperor. At one time made up exclusively of formidable axemen from Kiev Rus, it was now more likely to contain fighters from the old Viking heartlands of Norway and Denmark, as well as embittered
Anglo-Saxon warriors who had departed a Norman England where they had little chance to prosper.

‘Not an army I would choose to lead.’

This opinion was advanced by Robert of Salerno, another relative of the de Hauteville family through too many connections to easily enumerate and one of Bohemund’s senior conroy leaders. In the mix of marriages between Normans and the leading Lombard princely families over sixty years, there existed a web of cousinage in various degrees that it would need a learned monk to untangle. This Robert was black-haired and saturnine of complexion, though he did have dancing eyes.

‘It was one that put up a good fight at Durazzo,’ Bohemund replied. ‘And remember, under Alexius I was bested by that same combination more than once.’

‘Only in defence, Uncle,’ Tancred insisted, ‘they never attacked and drove you from the field.’

Bohemund acknowledged that with a nod, for, if memory made him uncomfortable, the conversation had started with that very proposition while waiting for the baggage train to cross the Vardar, the prospects of offensive aid from the Byzantine armies should they and the Crusaders ever get to grips with the Turks, the shared opinion being that, the Varangian Guard apart, little reliance should be placed on them.

‘And that has its own dangers, for there is no love lost between we Normans and the Anglo-Saxons as was proved at Durazzo, where we first encountered them.’

Robert and Tancred had heard the tale of the battle outside the walls many times before, yet Bohemund was obliged to tell the story again, of how the
Guiscard
had met and defeated Alexius Comnenus
for the first time and shortly after he had assumed the purple. The men of the then Varangian Guard, many of whom served the usurper Harold of England at Senlac Field, had come into Byzantine service after the Norman Conquest.

Tall, blond and wielding huge axes, they had advanced and thrown the Apulian battle lines into disarray. It was the
Guiscard
’s second wife, Robert of Salerno’s Aunt Sichelgaita, who had rallied the broken force and saved the day. If Bohemund had hated her with a passion – she being mother to
Borsa
and had ensured his elevation to the duchy – he was obliged to acknowledge her ability. The Varangians died to a man rather than withdraw.

‘Which, I hope,’ Bohemund concluded, ‘neither of you will ever be foolish enough to do.’

‘They were brave,’ Robert replied, those eyes alight.

‘They were stupid,’ came the snapped response, as some kind of commotion broke out to the rear, Bohemund standing to see what was afoot. ‘Never be afraid to retreat and live to fight another day.’

The shouts came from a fast-riding messenger and, indistinct at first, they soon assumed more clarity, not least because many of the Apulian knights were grabbing their weapons and heading to remount their horses. It took a mighty shout from their leader to stop them and still they remained until the message was relayed to him, that the Durazzo soldiers were attacking his baggage and there were insufficient men left behind to drive them off.

‘Robert, take two conroys back and force them to withdraw, but no more than that.’

‘They are stealing our possessions.’

There was no doubt the conclusion that induced: such men were required to die.

‘They are a pinprick, no more, and I do not want to arrive at the court of the Emperor with the blood of a massacre on my hands. I require him to think we are come in peace.’

‘But—’

The interruption was harsh; Robert of Salerno had too much Lombard blood for Bohemund to indulge him in the same way as he did his nephew. ‘Do not dispute with me, do as I say and quickly.’

‘Do we come merely in peace?’

Tancred posed this enquiry as Robert of Salerno, shouting out commands, rushed to mount his horse, a question answered after a lengthy pause to the sound of thudding and departing hooves, a subject never satisfactorily established since the day they set out to join the Crusade, abandoning the siege of rebellious Amalfi in the process, much to the chagrin of its titular suzerain, Roger
Borsa
. It followed from a very public dispute about the policy being pursued by the increasingly unpredictable
Borsa
, an argument in which he had insulted Bohemund and even managed to alienate the more equable Roger of Sicily.

In essence it came down to which of the
Guiscard
’s sons the Normans would follow, which only a fool like
Borsa
would put to the test, especially with news of the papal crusade circulating throughout the whole of Italy and knights like Tancred extolling what might be gained by participation. Even the Great Count, though unwilling to take part himself, had seen the possibilities – to no avail; Bohemund would not be moved and without him there was little chance of raising the forces necessary.

If
Borsa
had provided the proverbial straw that broke his half-brother’s back, the younger man was still curious about the precise nature of Bohemund’s motives in taking up the Crusade; what
were his immediate aims and more importantly what did he envisage in the longer term? He might be a good son of the Church but he was not and never had been the kind of religious zealot like
Borsa
, who wore hair shirts and allowed his thinking to be swayed by the intercession of priests.

Nor was it a mystery that he chafed at being a vassal to such a weakling. He had taken to the field immediately upon his father’s death in an attempt to gain his inheritance and if it had not been for Roger of Sicily, Bohemund would have been successful. That formidable power stood between him and success, always on hand to aid his weaker nephew if the stronger one looked like achieving his aim, while never so backing
Borsa
as to utterly cement his power. The balance, of course, gave Roger more security in Sicily than the prospect that either one should triumph.

If it needed Western aid to free Byzantine territory from the Turks it would require that same aid to hold it and prevent its recapture. The only way Alexius Comnenus could achieve security and keep that military presence in place would be to grant control of possessions to the leading Crusaders, but did they want that? It was impossible to know if those making their way east were intent on the capture of Jerusalem and personal salvation or were seeking to gain a slice of that fabled eastern wealth for themselves.

‘I have no mind to do for Byzantium that which it cannot do on its own merely for gratitude.’

‘Remission of sins once we free the Holy Places?’

That got Tancred a long look before any reply came; his nephew knew him too well to think that his primary reason for coming east. Bohemund, if he made obeisance to God, as all men must, did so with reservations brought on by too many remembrances of the times
when divine intervention had been seriously lacking when it came to his life and good fortune. He had never seen a fiery cross in the sky as he went into battle, nor heard a heavenly shout of encouragement from on high as armies clashed, and if God was a doubtful champion his servants on earth were less to be admired. Had not a reigning pope, for his own cynical ends and several talents of gold, helped his father annul the marriage to Bohemund’s mother, thus rendering him and his sister as bastards?

‘There is a hard road between here and Jerusalem.’

‘But are we here as friends or, as John Comnenus feared, as enemies? You are being given free passage over territories you fought for previously but he and his uncle obviously suspect your aim to be the same as it was a decade past.’

‘He would be a fool not to consider the possibility that I have come for Constantinople but he will also reason that alone it is nought but a dream. It would take the combined might of every Crusader to even think of taking the city and even then it would need trickery too. I have not seen the defences but I have heard enough of them to know they are formidable.’

‘Could such a combination be assembled?’

‘That depends on Alexius and the trust he can create. What is being asked of us is a great endeavour. I have no desire to march several hundred leagues to the south without I know that my lines of communication are secure and cannot but believe that others will think the same.’

‘There is no advantage to Alexius in not providing full support.’

‘True, and I think he will do so as long as it suits his purpose. But what if that changes, and even worse, what if he were to be replaced?’

‘He is a strong emperor, the best for a century.’

‘Strong emperors have fallen before, to a deadly potion or the secret knife, but all these things you have raised are in the future and unknown even to God.’

A stirring of recumbent warriors and an outbreak of cheering killed off any further discussion and had Bohemund and Tancred looking to observe the return of Robert of Salerno, the most obvious sight and easy to see at a distance the severed head dripping blood at the top of his lance. Bohemund’s anger rose in line with the increased roars from his knights, who saw only the fruits of a successful encounter and nothing of what it might lead to. By the time Robert was ready to dismount the cries of praise were raining down on him from all sides so that the man in command, even if he had wanted to publicly berate him for disobedience, knew how badly it would play with the men he led. A wise leader knew when to hold his tongue, so he had little choice but to confine his disapproval to a glare, while speaking softly to Tancred.

‘Tell him, in private, that if he ever disobeys me again, and so openly, it will be his head that adorns my lance tip.’ In a louder voice, which he had to work to keep under control, Bohemund asked Robert, ‘How many did you kill?’

‘Half at least, the rest fled, but they killed many beforehand. They were mainly archers who saw our drovers as an easy target and had no stomach to face the lance.’

‘And the crossing is secure?’ Tancred enquired.

‘All our baggage and livestock will be on this side before the sun begins to dip, cousin.’

The system of imperial messengers, fast riders and a ready supply of change horses, so important to the expansion of the old Roman
Empire, generally failed to function properly when the wearer of the diadem was weak or ruled for a short time. Alexius had restored it to something akin to its legendary efficiency and he required the service to function more now than he had ever needed it in the past. Thus he knew what had happened at the Vardar ford within a week, the news followed within days by a messenger from Bohemund explaining it as a mistake by an overzealous subordinate.

Of more interest to Bohemund was the news, when his messenger returned, that one of the main crusading groups several thousand strong, led by the Lotharingian Godfrey de Bouillon, had arrived and what had transpired when the Duke of Lower Lorraine met to talk with Alexius. He sent for his nephew and together they set out to walk the encampment heads close in conversation.

‘I suspect Alexius is demanding from him the same pledge his nephew wanted from us, but neither de Bouillon or his leading captains are prepared to freely give it.’

‘And the nature of the oath?’

‘Acknowledge Alexius as suzerain, hand back to him any possessions taken back from the Turks and rely on his generosity when it comes to the rewards for success.’