The Iron Lance (20 page)

For eight days, Count Raymond of Toulouse held fast to his resolve and refused to add his signature to the oath of loyalty the emperor required. Instead, he stood by and watched the huge troop ships of the emperor's fleet ceaselessly plying the waters of the Bosphorus, ferrying the armies of Bohemond and Tancred across to Pelecanum and speeding them on their way. Meanwhile, merchant vessels of every kind and description arrived in port fully laden with supplies of grain, oil, wine, and livestock, for the provisioning of the crusaders. From morning to night, the busy waterway heaved and surged with a barely-contained tumult. At times there were so many boats out on the water the count thought a knight could have galloped from one shore to the other on shipdeck.

Every day, pilgrims in their thousands made their slow way down to the river landings on the Golden Horn, leading horses and pulling wagons overflowing with equipment and camp clutter. The horses were boarded first—a laborious chore which slowed an already sluggish operation to a tedious crawl; and when the animals were secure, the wagons, which had been disassembled on shore, were put aboard, followed by the weapons, supplies, and equipment the wagons had been carrying. Only when the ships could hold no more baggage, were the people allowed to come aboard—knights and their footmen first, and then the camp followers: the priests and churchmen of various
kinds, the wives of the crusaders, and their children.

Fully laden, a troop ship could carry fifty horses, twenty wagons, and from three to four hundred people. The emperor had provided eleven of these large ships for the operation, and each ship could make two trips a day. Thus, while Count Raymond and Bishop Adhemar stood idly by, the numbers on the shore dwindled away with startling rapidity, until, after eight days, the sun set on an almost deserted quay.

The ninth day saw the arrival of Robert, Duke of Normandy, son of William, King of England; his cousin, Robert, Count of Flanders; and his brother-in-law, Count Stephen of Blois. Their combined forces ran to more than forty thousand men, including a small regiment led by the bellicose cleric, Bishop Odo of Bayeux.

Despite a slight difficulty with the Adriatic crossing, which resulted in the regrettable drowning of four hundred soldiers, all in all the journey to Constantinople had proved a highly satisfactory beginning to the pilgrimage, and the new arrivals were eager to cross the Bosphorus and engage the godless enemy. Like the others before them, the Latin Lords were immediately summoned to an audience with the emperor. Unlike some of their predecessors, however, they happily pledged allegiance to Alexius, and promised to return all lands, relics, peoples, and treasures to imperial rule.

The man largely responsible for their swift and gracious submission was Count Stephen, who appeared to enjoy a measure of influence with the others on account of his good-natured selflessness and genuine piety. Once the emperor learned of the high esteem in which Stephen was held by his comrades, he wasted not a moment in recruiting the young lord to the cause of inducing Raymond to sign the oath.

No sooner had Lord Blois replaced the quill upon the tray,
than did Alexius remark how glad he was to have that formality behind them and how he would instantly command provisions to be delivered to the newcomers' hungry troops, whereupon the imperial ships would begin transporting them to Pelecanum to join their pilgrim comrades. Duke Robert, relieved and grateful, expressed his eagerness to resume the pilgrimage, whereupon the emperor mentioned what a dreadful shame it was that Count Raymond of Toulouse would not be joining them on the crusade.

The western lords glanced at one another wonderingly. Count Raymond's army was the largest and best supplied, and they were counting on his leadership. “But, Lord Emperor, why should Raymond stay behind?” inquired Stephen respectfully.

“We can only assume that our friend has decided to abandon the crusade,” replied Alexius.

“Truly?” wondered Count Robert of Flanders.

“So it would appear.”

“Forgive me, Emperor Alexius,” said the Duke of Normandy, “but I find this most difficult to believe. The Count of Toulouse is known to be a most ardent pilgrim. Indeed, his army stands ready even now to depart. There must be some other explanation. No doubt a mistake has been made.”

“There has been no mistake,” the emperor assured him. “The only impediment to his departure is the oath which you and your comrades have just signed. Count Raymond has been in Constantinople nine days; each day he is presented with the oath, and each day he refuse to sign.” Alexius' voice became hard. “As he cannot continue to the Holy Land until the document is acknowledged, we can only conclude that he has decided to forsake the crusade.”

Stephen, frowning with concern, nodded sympathetically. “I begin to understand,” he replied. “Perhaps the emperor might
allow me a space in which to try to change his mind. With your consent, Emperor, I will speak to him.”

“Please, by all means, speak to him,” said Alexius with the air of a man who has exhausted every possibility. “We will pray God grants you every success, and swiftly. The ships will begin transporting your troops the day after the Easter Mass and the oath must be signed before any soldiers are allowed to make the crossing.”

“But Easter is tomorrow!” Stephen gasped.

“It is,” agreed the emperor. “Thus, you begin to see the way of things.”

“By your leave, Lord Emperor, I will speak to him without delay.”

The tenth day after Raymond arrived in Constantinople, bells of the great city's churches broke the dawn silence with a clanging cacophony to herald the Eastertide Mass. The western noblemen and their families—for all except Stephen had brought wives and children with them—were invited to sit with the imperial family in the royal gallery in the Church of the Holy Wisdom. There, among Saint Sophia's gold-encrusted icons and immaculate mosaics of the Risen Christ, the visitors were offered a glimpse of the glory they had solemnly vowed to preserve. After the church service, while the emperor's party returned to the palace for a day of feasting, interspersed with prayers and worship, the pilgrims were conducted back to their stark and barren camps to reflect on the grandeur of what they had experienced.

Early the next morning, the imperial ships began moving the troops of Normandy and Flanders across the Bosphorus to join those of Hugh, Godfrey, and Bohemond awaiting them on the other side. For ten days the great troop ships traversed the narrow strait in waves as relentless as the tide, ceaselessly loading
and unloading the crusaders and their paraphernalia of war. Still, the proud Lord of Toulouse refused the oath.

When the last horse and footman had been ferried across, the emperor gave orders to remove the imperial fleet from the quay to the center of the Golden Horn so that the increasingly anxious Franks left behind would not be tempted to take them by force. He instructed his admiral to allow the ships to remain in full sight, however, so as to provide stubborn Lord Raymond and his wilful bishop a continual reminder of how little stood between them and their departure, and how swiftly they might be hastened on their way.

Lord Stephen, who had sent his troops on ahead with the others, remained behind to help persuade the toplofty count; he counselled, coaxed, and cajoled, and by dint of his genuine good nature succeeded, at last in softening Raymond's resolve. Thus, three days after the last troop ship had sailed, Count Toulouse and Bishop Adhemar appeared with Stephen at Blachernae Palace seeking audience with the emperor.

Alexius graciously agreed to see them as soon as possible, and then went casually about his affairs: reviewed the palace guard; strolled through the imperial stables and paused to watch the Master of Horse put the yearlings through their paces; observed mass; met with the magister officiorum and the quaestor sacri palatii to discuss the following week's register of state functions; dined with the empress at midday, following which he enjoyed a rare, if brief, nap in the garden; and signed a dozen or so documents relating to the promotion of several deserving military commanders and their requisite pay increases. Meanwhile, he had given the fleet commander orders to have the troop ships moved from the center of the Golden Horn around to Hormisdas Harbour so that the crusaders should see them departing.

When Alexius had finished his chores, and could think of nothing else to do, he called the magister to him and asked if there was anything he had neglected to do that day. “By your leave, basileus,” the magister answered, “allow me to remind your highness that the Latin lords await an audience with the emperor. They are standing in the anteroom even now.”

“Ah, so they are,” agreed Alexius affably. “Have they waited long?”

“Reasonably long, basileus. They arrived early this morning.”

“Well then, if there is nothing else, allow them to come in. We will see them now.”

“At your command, basileus.” The magister backed away from the throne, reached the screen and indicated to the guardsmen to open the door. A few moments later, he led two very anxious and unhappy noblemen, and an irate bishop, into the emperor's private audience chamber.

Alexius greeted them warmly as they came to stand before him, and asked why they had come. The two lords glanced at one another, and Raymond, at Stephen's prompting, replied, “I have come to make my pledge, Lord Emperor.”

“Well and good,” Alexius replied, “but we fear it is too late.”

“Too late?” wondered Raymond. His eyes shifted accusingly to Stephen.

“Forgive me, Lord Emperor,” said Stephen, speaking up. “But I was given to believe that if I could persuade Lord Raymond to take the oath, we would be able to continue the pilgrimage.”

“That is so,” answered the emperor. “But if you will recall, we said the oath must be signed before the ships finished the crossing.” Turning to the magister officiorum, the emperor asked, “Is that not what we said, magister?”

The magister consulted the wax tablet on which he recorded all official transactions, replied, “It is so, basileus. That is what was said.”

“We are sorry,” Alexius said placidly. “If only you had come to us sooner.”

“We have waited all day!” exclaimed Bishop Adhemar, unable to contain himself any longer. “This is intolerable.”

Alexius grew steely. “And yet it will be tolerated. Lord Raymond has had ample time in which to make up his mind. Or did you think the world would wait for his decision? I assure you, the world waits for no man.”

“I stand ready to make my pledge now,” Raymond insisted, the color rising to his face.

“And we are telling you it is too late.”

“Too late!” growled Raymond.

“The ships are needed elsewhere. We have compromised the protection of other provinces in order to accommodate the demands of the crusade, but that cannot continue indefinitely.” The emperor gazed implacably at the three before him. “The fleet requires maintenance and repair; the ships must be readied for their departure. Any delay would be too costly to contemplate.”

Raymond, speechless with frustration, glared rancorously at the emperor. Adhemar drew breath to speak again, but the cooler-tempered Stephen prevailed.

“If you please, Lord Emperor,” said Stephen quickly, “perhaps I might suggest a remedy.”

“If you know any,” Alexius replied, “we would welcome it.”

“If the imperial fleet's departure could be postponed a few days, we might hire the ships to take our armies across. We can pay in gold.”

The emperor frowned. “We have gold aplenty. What we lack
is ships to keep the imperial waters safe.” He stared at the noblemen, and drummed his fingers on the armrests of his throne. “Something else comes to mind,” Alexius said slowly, as if considering it for the first time.

“Yes, Lord Emperor?”

“It occurs to us that we have made good on promises to provision and transport the pilgrims through imperial lands and beyond, and borne the cost out of our own treasury. This we have been happy to do for the liberation of the Holy Land, and for the sake of the lands to be returned to the empire if you are successful.”

“With God's help,” Bishop Adhemar declared, “we
will
be victorious.”

“We pray for your every victory, lord bishop,” Alexius told him. “In view of that, it seems only fair that we should have an imperial emissary to lend aid to the enterprise, and attend to matters arising from the reinstatement of imperial rule.”

Stephen understood the offer the emperor was making and, before his companions could object, happily agreed. “Of course, in recognition of the emperor's generosity in extending the use of imperial ships, we would be pleased to welcome an envoy of the emperor's choosing to offer counsel, and look after the special interests of the empire. I am embarrassed we did not suggest it ourselves.”

Raymond stiffened; he did not like the notion of an imperial factotum nosing around in the affairs of the crusaders.

“Good.” Alexius gestured to the magister. “We accept your offer to hire the ships, and to include our imperial emissary among your advisors.” Extending his hand towards the magister, Alexius took up the parchment containing the oath which all the other crusading lords had signed, and passed it to Raymond.

The reluctant lord stood clutching the document, but made no move to unfold it. Instead, he looked helplessly to Stephen.

“As it happens, Lord Emperor,” Count Blois began hesitantly, “I was meaning to suggest that Lord Raymond should be allowed to pledge an oath of his own devising.”

Alexius stared at the two noblemen. Was there no end to their impudence? At last, he said, “We should have you bound in chains and dropped in the Bosphorus, except that we are curious to know why you think Raymond should be allowed this singular distinction—” his voice rose as he spoke, “when all the other lords, including yourself, have seen the wisdom of compliance. Illuminate us if you can.”