What you possess shall escape you in the end and return to us.
Know that we hold you and will keep you until the account is settled.
Know you that we go forth and return as we wish.
Know you that by no means can you hinder us or escape.
Hugh threw the parchment down on the table. Eleanor picked it up and studied the writing. The Norman French letters were perfectly formed.
‘This was delivered to them?’ she asked. ‘They were marked down for death?’
‘Something similar,’ Theodore replied, ‘but that,’ he pointed to the parchment, ‘was delivered to us.’ He leaned underneath the table, undid the straps to the panniers he usually carried over his shoulder and drew out two long curved daggers bound together by a blood-red cord.
‘We are,’ intoned Hugh as if reciting a prayer, ‘the Poor Brethren of the Temple; we will, God willing, take Jerusalem and the treasures it holds. We will be a community zealous in our service to the Lord, dedicated to preserving His name and the glory of His Passion. We do not seek the blood of Jew or Muslim but we will follow our vision, for as the Book of Proverbs says: “Where there is no vision on the earth, the people perish.” ’
‘And the warning?’ Eleanor asked, curbing her fear.
‘The same as that given to Brother Norbert and Father Alberic,’ Hugh replied softly. ‘Pinned to a bolster two nights ago. The Fedawi know what we intend, and they are waiting!’
Part 5
Dorylaeum: The Feast of St James the Apostle, 25 July 1097
Hominumque contentio mundi hujus et cupido.
(A day when strife amongst men and the lusts of this world are over.)
The Dies Irae of St Columba
Deus Vult! God wills it! The hoarse battle cry rang through the valley, echoing up to the pine-edged hilltops, scattering the birds from the cypress trees. Yes, Deus vult, Eleanor reflected, as she sat on a pile of cushions in the looted tent close to the battlefield of Dorylaeum. Dust devils swirled through the flaps of the gorgeous but fire-singed pavilion of expensive cloth with its ornate gold fringes. To the right of the flap stretched a great splash of dried blood; Eleanor tried to ignore this as she dictated to Simeon the Scribe, the man of a thousand faiths, as he described himself. A Copt, a prisoner whom Eleanor had rescued from the blood-spattered mace of Babewyn, Simeon sat waiting patiently for his ‘mistress-sister’ to collect her thoughts. He had everything ready: the writing tray, the sharpened quills, ink horns, pumice stone, a little sand, as well as rolls of looted parchment. Simeon, whose Coptic name Eleanor found difficult to pronounce, stared adoringly at his saviour whilst quietly congratulating himself on his innate skill at surviving. A trained scribe, knowledgeable in Greek and Frankish, not to mention Latin and the lingua franca of the ports, he had served Fatimid, Seljuk, Greek and Frank as well as Armenian, Syrian and Jewish masters. He was a skilled scholar, and could prepare manuscripts, write in cipher, and worship God in any way his masters wanted him to. On the morning of 19 July 1097, Simeon awoke a devout Muslim; by the time he succumbed to a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep that same day, he was, according to the subtle tale he told Eleanor, a devout Christian captured by the Sultan of Rhum outside Nicomedea. Nevertheless, Simeon, as he now called himself — after Simeon Stylites, the hermit who lived for years on top of a pillar — truly liked Eleanor. He admired her solemn pale face, framed by its veil of black hair, and those lively smiling eyes. If she wanted to recall the stupendous events, as she described them, that accompanied the Franks and their foolish journey to Jerusalem, then he was her man, though he fully intended not to share her fate. If the Turks attacked and were victorious, Simeon quietly promised himself that he would hide as he had done last time, survive the axe, sword or lance and declare himself the most devout of Muslims.
In her turn, Eleanor studied Simeon out of the corner of her eye: his dark face, the neatly clipped and oiled beard and moustache, his bony body, long arms and slender fingers. Quite an elegant man, with his bracelets, the earring in the left earlobe and the loose dark green robes he wore with a white cord around the waist. Simeon was a born story-teller, Eleanor reflected, and that was what she needed. Others were writing chronicles, accounts and letters about what was happening, so why shouldn’t she continue hers with a little skilled help?
‘Write it down as I describe it,’ she said to Simeon.
He brought both hands together and bowed.
‘As you say, mistress-sister, so shall it be done!’ His liquid dark eyes were full of amusement, his face composed in a mask of mock servitude.
Ah well, Deus vult, and so it was, Eleanor reflected. They had left Constantinople, ferried across the Arm of St George in barges to begin their journey through Anatolia, the Sultanate of Rhum. From the start they had been shadowed by Turkish scouts. The Army of God were following the same path as Peter the Hermit’s horde, and the Turks had deliberately left the remains of the thousands they had slaughtered at Civetot and elsewhere as a grisly warning. Bits of rotting skeletons, decapitated heads, skulls on a row of poles, in spiked bushes, on rocky outcrops or around wells and waterholes glared ominously at them. The signs of such a great massacre dampened the ardour of some, though others grew fervent for revenge. The Army of God moved slowly in phalanxes, long lines of carts, horses, donkeys and camels. Alongside these trudged columns of men, women and children, baking under the strengthening sun. Their destination was the Turkish-held city of Nicea with its forbidding towers, huge gates and flaking yellow walls. An impregnable fortress, Nicea was defended on three sides by impressive fortifications and on the fourth by the Askanian lake. The Army of God, however, were in good spirits. They were well supplied with corn, wine, wheat and barley, whilst the route to Nicea was clearly marked along the rutted, tangled path by scouts who nailed up wooden or metal crosses.
In the main it was a pleasant journey. Eleanor had ridden in one of the carts, reflecting more on what she had learnt in Constantinople than what awaited them at Nicea. Norbert and Alberic had become friendlier, welcoming her as a true sister as if some invisible barrier had been miraculously removed; even Imogene, who tended to keep to herself, commented on that. For the rest, Eleanor wondered about the Fedawi and their threats. How could they be so close to Constantinople? Had they disguised themselves, blending in with the merchants or Turcopole mercenaries who swarmed everywhere? Theodore, in recognition of what they had told her, rather shyly gave Eleanor a small icon painted on wood, very similar to those images she had seen in Hagia Sophia, a reminder of the bond between them.
Eleanor could now understand Hugh’s enthusiasm, as well as the strict discipline imposed on the Poor Brethren of the Temple. They were marching to Jerusalem not just to recover the Holy Sepulchre but to discover proof of Christ’s Passion and Resurrection. According to Hugh, they must be victorious and purify themselves, in order to be worthy to receive such holy relics. Little wonder too about the secrecy. Relic-hunters like the Magus, whoever he might be, would murder for such religious objects, whilst the Fedawi would never allow entry to a place they had chosen as their own.
Eleanor, seated on the cart jolting along the trackway, wondered if the Beggars’ Company, marching a little ahead of them, could be a refuge for such outlaws. Beltran distrusted Jehan deeply and had warned her to be wary of that rogue and his coven. Indeed, since leaving Constantinople, Beltran had attached himself to Eleanor and Imogene, paying particular attention to the pretty widow. Like Theodore, he proved to be a genial companion who, by his own confession, had hardly left Provence, being steeped, as he put it, in all its wonders, particularly the poetry and songs of the south. He was not a knight but a serjeant, a nuncius or envoy, well placed to learn all the gossip of the camp and the bickering between its leaders.