Siege Read online

  Siege

  Richard Foreman

  © Richard Foreman 2019

  Richard Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  “Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.”

  St Augustine.

  Table of Contents

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16. Epilogue.

  1.

  “You may call yourself a knight, but you are no nobleman,” Girard of Mortain scornfully asserted, after forcing his English opponent back again. The high-born Norman wore a clean woollen surcoat – white, with a red cross sewn below his left shoulder – underneath an expensive suit of mail. His boots were made from Italian leather. His practice sword – the edges and point blunted – was forged from Spanish steel. The young man’s fine features – strong jaw, aquiline nose – had been burnished by the Mediterranean sun over the course of the long, arduous pilgrimage. Like many noblemen - who had answered Pope Urban II’s call to fight the enemies of God and re-take the Holy City of Jerusalem – Girard was a second son, largely disinherited by his elder sibling. The knight had taken the cross in the hope of saving his soul – and making his fortune in the process. He dreamed of one day returning to his province, riding out in front of a mighty company of men upon a coal-black destrier - and disinheriting his brother.

  Girard’s sneer unfurled itself into a triumphant smile. He licked the sweat from his upper lip, as if he were licking off the wine he would drink, that his uncle Raymond of Toulouse promised him, for winning the contest, against Bohemond of Taranto’s man. And winning would prove easier than the nobleman first thought. As per his lord’s instructions Girard aimed to toy with his opponent, before ending the bout. Victory would come from a competitor yielding - or being knocked unconscious.

  “By embarrassing the Englishman, you will, in turn, be embarrassing his paymaster. And that will bring me no small portion of pleasure,” Raymond had remarked with a wolfish grin, sitting on his throne-like iron chair in the main chamber of his billet.

  Girard advanced once more and unleashed a flurry of attacks, which the Englishman was barely able to deflect with his chipped second sword and battered second shield.

  “You should have remained on your pox-ridden island, Englishman – eating your shit food and enjoying your drear weather. You could be now back in your hovel there, ploughing one of your bow-legged women – as my countrymen once ploughed through your lands during the Harrying of the North.”

  The Norman spat out his words with relish. He hoped to goad his opponent into making a mistake, as well as garner a few laughs from his supporters.

  The Englishman – Edward Kemp – appeared too breathless to reply, even though the veteran campaigner could speak French as fluently as his native tongue. The cross on his threadbare jerkin, beneath a second-hand mail shirt, had faded. His weathered features betrayed his weary spirit. To some observers, Kemp owned a beleaguered air of defeat before he even picked up his sword.

  Cheers and jeers buffeted his ears in equal measure, from the crowd which encircled the two combatants. Knights looked on – as well as attendants, farriers, armourers and infantrymen – enjoying the entertainment. It was better that just two men fought against each other - in a proxy fight between Raymond and Bohemond - than two rival armies. The pilgrims doubtless appreciated the distraction. The fire in their bellies, as they urged their respective champions on, made them temporarily forget about their hunger. They feasted on the spectacle, albeit some half-watched whilst they feverishly placed wagers on the outcome.

  Kemp’s face was sunburnt rather than burnished. His cropped, dusty brown hair was marked with several small scars, picked up from tavern brawls and battlefields alike. His nose had been broken more times than a troubadour’s heart. A few grey hairs coloured the forty-five-year old’s unkempt beard. The soldier’s eyes were a deep hazel. At night, they appeared black. As black as his soul, the soldier would half-joke.

  The other Englishman present, Thomas Devin, winced for his countryman as Girard used his sword as a hammer, striking it against the anvil of Kemp’s splintering shield. Thomas served in Bohemond’s retinue too, as a scribe and translator. The studious youth had an innocent face – and an innocent heart. Thomas had stood in the crowd on that fateful day in Clermont, when Pope Urban II had called upon Christendom to liberate the Holy City from the infidel. The well-read son of a wealthy wool merchant had journeyed to France to further his studies and visit the famed monastery at Cluny. But Urban – or God even – had touched his soul. For once in his life, the student experienced a sense of purpose. Meaning. Grace abounded. He knew he needed to step beyond the threshold of his village and his father’s library. A divine wind fed his sails. Thomas had prayed that night in Clermont and reverently uttered the word as if it were the name of his first love:

  Jerusalem.

  The adolescent’s smooth face was now wrinkled with worry, however. He was fearful of his friend suffering an injury. Edward’s pride would doubtless be wounded too, should he finish second-best in the contest. The knight had been teaching Thomas how to fight – and in return the young scholar had been teaching Edward how to read. Surprisingly, or not, it was the older man who was progressing in his new field of study more than the youth.

  Thomas noticed Edward glance at Owen, a Welsh archer, who was a close companion of the English knight. Owen possessed a roguish expression and a roguish heart. The compactly built soldier was one of the finest bowmen in Bohemond’s company, even when half drunk. Months of near starvation had failed to re-sculpture his barrel chest and muscular arms. The archer shook his head at the swordsman, perhaps in disappointment or to convey to his friend to yield and stop the bout, before suffering serious impairment, Thomas considered.

  The afternoon sun beat down on the ground like a smouldering fist, seemingly dissolving any wisps of cloud in the azure sky like fat being burned in a pan. A horse whinnied in the background, over the babbling noise of the crowd, letting its owner know that it was as hungry as any other poor creature in the camp.

  Looming large behind the two combatants, an island in a sea of mountains and marshland was the city of Antioch – with its steep walls and multiple turrets, which jutted out like boastful chins. The city the pilgrims had besieged for over six months, since their arrival in October. The western armies had almost surrounded Antioch and its various gates. Almost. The Turkish governor, Yaghi Siyan, had been able to smuggle provisions in to feed the city. He had even sent out troops to attack Frankish foraging parties. The city stood as defiantly now as it did in October. Perhaps even more defiantly, as despair now eclipsed hope for the pilgrims. A mighty Saracen army, led by Kerbogha of Mosul, was marching to relieve Antioch and defeat the westerners.

  “The Army of God has turned into the army of God Help Us,” Edward had sardonically remarked to the devout young scribe, whilst he prepared himself for the contest against Raymond’s chosen man.

  “God will not abandon us,” Thomas had replied, faithfully. Hopefully. He clutched the silver crucifix around his neck, whilst speaking. God had been with them at Clermont, at the siege of Nicaea and the Battle of Dorylauem. The Christian sincerely believed that God would not forsake them now, at Antioch.

  “Abandon us? I doubt the bastard was ever with us in the first place,” Edward countered, before downing a cup of wine and poking a
new notch into his belt with his dagger, from where his waist had shrunk again.

  As much as Thomas was growing accustomed to his friend’s sacrilegious outbursts, he still blanched and silently said a quick prayer to counteract the cynical knight’s blasphemy.

  The youth prayed for his companion once more. Not to win the contest (as he felt he may be asking too much of God for that). But to just survive the encounter, without suffering any perilous wounds.

  Girard attacked, almost dancing forward. Posturing. Swords clanged together, setting Thomas’ teeth on edge. The Norman thought how pleased his old fencing master would be with his technique. The young warrior had yet to be truly tested in battle, having been ill, conveniently or not, or absent during previous engagements. But he would make a name for himself by defeating Bohemond’s champion.

  The Englishman winced and let out a curse, as a minor gash on his right hip - picked up from a Turkish blade during an ambush when accompanying a foraging party - opened-up.

  “Age has finally caught up with him, I warrant,” Godfrey of Bouillon said, standing just behind Robert of Flanders. “Edward would have easily bested this pup in his prime.”

  “I wouldn’t write the Englishman off quite yet. An old lion is still a lion,” Robert replied, knowingly and equitably. Adhemar spoke highly of the soldier, and Robert thought highly of the bishop.

  Half the crowd let out a gasp – and half a cheer – as Girard’s blade swept past Edward’s face, narrowly missing his nose. Dust puffed up from the ground as the ageing knight shuffled backwards. He sighed in relief, or exhaustion.

  Edward flittingly gazed at Owen. The Welsh archer this time subtly nodded to his companion. The bowman had finally secured a wager at the odds the two men were happy with. It was time. The Englishman wryly smiled and adjusted his stance. He let his half-shattered shield fall to the ground. He would only now advance, instead of retreat. Attack, not defend.

  Edward drew on the memory of coming back to his village, as a boy – and finding his cottage burned to the ground and his mother and father disembowelled. The English knight would plough through the bastard in front of him, as the Normans had ploughed through his homeland. His nostrils flared, sucking in more air, stoking the fire, as hot as hell, in his chest.

  His dark eyes narrowed in determination, or malice. Edward’s footing was surer - and his armour no longer appeared to weigh him down - as he closed on his opponent. Victim.

  The force and fury of the Englishman’s assault was like nothing Girard had ever encountered during his fencing lessons. The Norman could barely retain a grip on his sword when their blades struck. Each blow upon his shield jarred his entire body. Bohemond’s supporters – and anyone who had bet on Edward – cheered. Raymond’s followers remained silent – and some even cringed with shame when Girard appeared to let out a small yelp in reply to the ferocity of the Englishman’s attack.

  When the Norman finally managed to feebly swing his sword at his opponent Edward caught the blunt blade in his gauntleted hand and yanked the weapon away, disarming his opponent. The crowd gasped once more. Wide-eyed. Astonished. But the Englishman ignored them. Instead he quickly moved forward and butted his combatant, re-shaping his fine aquiline nose. Bone and cartilage cracked, like the snapping of a twig. Bohemond had been proved right in his judgement, when the bout had been announced:

  “You may not know how to fence, but God knows you can fight, Edward.”

  Girard fell to the ground, with a clink and clatter. Terror spilled into the young man’s heart and quivering features as the stone-faced Englishman stood over him and rested the rounded point of his sword on the Norman’s blood-stained chin. There was no need to ask if he would yield. The contest was over.

  “You may call yourself a nobleman, but you are no knight,” Edward remarked, damningly, his voice as rough as the beard on his face.

  2.

  Edward sucked on each small bone from the roasted hare which had been put in front of him. He licked his fingers and made sure to finish the dregs in his cup of diluted wine. Through the entrance to the tent the vermillion sun glowed like embers on the horizon. In the background, he could hear the Orontes flow peacefully, indifferently. Come evening the jade river would appear as black as Styx.

  “You earned yourself another victory this afternoon, Edward. Bohemond will duly reward you. But know also that you may have won an enemy too. I have had the misfortune to meet Raymond’s nephew on more than one occasion. He is comfortably capable of base spite and revenge. He is part of the nobility after all,” Adhemar de Monteil, Bishop of Le Puy, drily remarked to his friend.

  Although Raymond of Toulouse and Bohemond argued that each deserved to be considered the chief military commander of the crusade, there could be no such similar debate about who was the spiritual leader of the campaign. The scene was somewhat staged, yet Adhemar’s piety and purpose were sincere when he took the cross from Pope Urban II at Clermont.

  The bishop was middle-aged with a kind, sage countenance, which put one at ease. His words and actions were always considered and courteous. Adhemar managed to possess both a satirical sense of humour and a sense of godliness. Edward was often impressed by the clergyman’s ability to remember most the names of the people he’d meet, whether they were a prince or pauper. As well as being a gifted orator and diplomat, Adhemar was not fearful of picking up a weapon, to aid the cause. The bishop first encountered the knight when the two men found themselves fighting side-by-side at the Battle of Dorylaeum. Adhemar’s leadership and bravery - when riding into the heart of the Turkish camp - turned the tide during the engagement and caused the Seljuks to rout.

  “Girard will have to get in line, should he want to stab me in the back. God knows how many cuckolds, wounded Turks and wronged women are in front of him,” the knight said, and then yawned.

  Adhemar grinned, his aspect as bright and warm as the coals on the brazier standing in between the two men. He enjoyed the honesty and humour of the gruff Englishman, particularly when they shared a jug of wine. Edward was far from a good Christian, but the soldier was a good man. He hoped that the veteran knight could one day find some peace and contentment.

  The Harrying of the North had devastated England – and the child’s soul. After finding his parents dead – and village razed to the ground – Edward Kemp travelled south. One night he came across a dying campfire. The boy scavenged what food he could, before entering the service of Richard of Bolene, a Norman knight, on an estate just outside of Winchester. The baron noticed something in the strong-limbed stable hand and turned him into a squire, teaching him how to ride and fight.

  “Bolene was a bawd – and I was one of his many whores, so to speak. Once I could wield a sword and lance properly, I was shipped off, with others, to fight in various campaigns across Europe, from Moorish Spain to the Italian peninsular,” Edward explained to Adhemar, one evening, shortly after the Battle of Dorylaeum. “I’ve killed more men than I care to remember. God should, quite rightly, never forgive some of the things I’ve done. I’ve made widows and orphans of far too many people. But God turned his back on me a long time ago – and so I justly turned my back on God, to return the favour… So now I sell my sword to the highest bidder. I’m a soldier of fortune. Or rather misfortune. I would sell my soul too, if I thought it was worth anything… Why did I join Bohemond’s company? He’s the best of a bad bunch. And he knows how to win, whether employing might or guile. And to take Antioch, we’ll need both. He puts food in our bellies and gold in our purses… There are far worse men in the world than Bohemond. And there are far worse causes to die for… But, should I somehow survive this fool’s errand of a pilgrimage, I intend to return to England. Buy a farm. Get my hands dirty, instead of bloody… Thankfully the women in England like a drink, so I should be able to get some poor mare drunk enough to agree to marry me. I don’t mind her being ugly, if she’s a good cook. I don’t mind her being poor, if she’s well-endowed in other ways. And I even won’t m
ind her being shrewish, so long as she’s rich enough for me to be able to afford a more compliant mistress.”

  The wind blew-up and soughed through Adhemar’s tent. A small wooden bed sat in the corner next to a large writing desk, inlaid with ivory. A few candles flickered below a brace of pictures, which hung above the desk. The first was an image of Christ on the cross, the second was a portrait of St Augustine. Silken tendrils of smoke spiralled upwards from sticks of incense, although the fragrance seldom eclipsed the fetid smell of ordure from the nearby latrines. Two lecterns lined the side of the tent opposite the bed. Both were in use. Partly to practise his letters – and curious to know what his friend was reading – Edward walked over to the lecterns whilst Adhemar attended to one of his clerks. The well-thumbed Bible was open at the Book of Galations. The words danced before his eyes initially, but the soldier focused – squinting – and slowly took in a passage from the text. A grimy finger traced the letters over the page and his mouth opened and closed, sounding out some of the syllables.

  “Only the person who is put right with God through faith shall live.”

  He didn’t quite understand or appreciate what he was reading.

  The second tome, like the first, was heavily annotated with the bishop’s tiny but elegant handwriting. Again, Edward bent over the lectern and scrivener-like examined one of the annotated passages.

  “Men give voice to their opinions, but they are only opinions, like so many puffs of wind that waft the soul hither and thither and make it veer and turn. The light is clouded over and the truth cannot be seen, although it is there before our eyes.”

  The tent was also home to a small altar. A worn purple cushion, with two indents from where the bishop knelt and prayed each morning and evening, sat on the floor, before the altar. Later that evening he prayed for God to compel Yaghi Siyan to surrender. For a divine wind to breathe life into the sails of the supply ships, coming from Cyprus. For Alexios Komnemos, the Byzantine emperor, to make haste with his army - and for Kerbogha’s forces to disband or be further delayed. Should his prayers go unanswered however the bishop would not lose his faith in God (as much as his faith might have been wavering in his fellow man)? Adhemar would continue to work and answer his own prayers. He would support Bohemond in his undisclosed plan to capture the city (even if it meant the nobleman breaking his oath to the emperor and securing Antioch for himself). He would also oversee the distribution of supplies so that none grew fat at the expense of the starving. “A rising tide should lift all boats.” He would use his agents to feed false intelligence to the enemy, such as they did when convincing Kerbogha that Baldwin’s fortified town of Edessa possessed riches to rival those held at Jerusalem. Every day that Kerbogha was delayed, fruitlessly trying to capture the stronghold, granted the pilgrims additional time to capture Antioch or be joined by the emperor’s army. To concentrate Alexios’ mind, Adhemar had written to his ally inferring that Bohemond intended to conquer Antioch for himself. Rather than being reinforced by a Byzantine army, he feared the campaign might lose a Frankish one soon. Stephen of Blois was wavering in his commitment to the cause. Either he was ill, or feigning illness. His words said one thing, but his eyes said another, as Adhemar tried to bolster the prince’s courage.