‘Camel turds,’ Simeon whispered. ‘But thanks to you, mistress-sister…’ He leaned forward. ‘Oh, by the way, can I take the oath as a Poor Brother of the Temple? I know things.’
‘Do you, Simeon?’ Eleanor narrowed her eyes.
‘I know secrets about the hidden things. I have heard the whispers.’
Eleanor glanced quickly at Imogene stretched out sleeping on a pile of cushions.
‘Simeon, I am always amazed at your skill for listening.’ She smiled. ‘But let us return to our chronicle.’
‘Of course, mistress-sister, though I must add my thanks to you and your noble brother for saving my life. I am so grateful…’
‘The chronicle, Simeon…’
‘Yes, mistress-sister…’
Babewyn had seized Simeon by the throat, struggling to keep him in position so that Gargoyle could swing his mace. Eleanor had screamed at them to stop, but only the arrival of Hugh and Godefroi, their swords drawn, forced the two killers to retreat. Drunk and mouthing filthy curses, they staggered away. Eleanor took Simeon into her entourage as the Army of God turned from celebrating its victory to the grim business of besieging Nicea. The city baffled them. No such fortifications had faced a Frankish army in the west. They also had no boats, so attack from the lake was impossible. The moat in front of the walls stretched over two yards wide and the same deep. The first defensive wall beyond was at least six feet thick and nine yards high, with towers jutting out to defend the approaches. Even if this was breached, the towering curtain wall behind it, eighteen feet thick, was protected by a fresh range of towers from where archers and slingers, not to mention engines of war, could rake attackers with a blizzard of missiles. Frustration mounted amongst the Army of God. The jubilation over Arslan’s defeat soon evaporated as they tried desperately to take the city. The moat was filled in at a certain point and makeshift catapults and mangonels pushed across. They and the soldiers who manned them were swiftly engulfed in a flood of arrows, stones, javelins and sheets of roaring flame. Mantlets, screens of aspen and willow woven together, were built to protect the archers, but these too were ravaged by oily fire poured from the battlements.
One morning Count Raymond, escorted by Hugh, Godefroi, Eleanor and others from the Poor Brethren, rode out along the moat to search for any weakness. From the fortifications rose jeering insults and a rain of arrows, which fell short. It was a clear, warm day, the breeze sweet with the fragrance of pine, cypress and the fruits ripening in the nearby orchards. The count reined in.
‘We have plenty of wood,’ Raymond’s one good eye glared at Hugh and Godefroi as he gestured at the trees, ‘but what can we do with it?’
Hugh grasped the reins of the count’s horse. ‘Come, my lord, there is something.’ They galloped further along the evil-smelling moat.
Eleanor found the palfrey she had been given sluggish, reluctant to move, so Theodore reined in, moving between her and the Turks lining the battlements. He grasped the palfrey’s reins and winked at Eleanor.
‘Just in case,’ he murmured, ‘the Turks might glimpse your beauty and sally out.’
Eleanor blushed, and Theodore began to sing a troubadour song about a maid locked in a tower. Eventually Hugh led them to the most eastern part of the wall.
‘Look, my lord.’
Eleanor followed her brother’s direction.
‘Theodore told me about this,’ continued Hugh. ‘Stare hard at the base of the tower: the brickwork is crumbling, the legacy of a previous siege.’
Count Raymond stared, then clapped his hands in glee. Two days later a testudo, fashioned out of cypress, willow and aspen under a roof of holm oak, its leather covering saturated with wet sand, crossed the makeshift bridge to pound at what Eleanor had christened ‘the Leaning Tower’. Archers sheltered beneath the eaves of the testudo’s broad sloping roof and loosed at the enemy along the battlements. The engineers soon broke through the wall, shoring up the breach with beams as they picked feverishly at the crumbling masonry behind. Eleanor stood watching, safe behind a line of shielded carts. The tower collapsed just as darkness fell, but the following morning the camp was roused by trumpet cries. Eleanor, bleary-eyed, rushed out of her tent and joined the throng streaming down through the shifting mist to the eastern side of the moat. They stopped and stared in disbelief of the Leaning Tower. During the night, the defenders, working feverishly, had repaired the breach. Count Raymond’s anger knew no bounds, and like Achilles, he retreated to sulk in his tent while other leaders pressed on with the siege. Yet despite Kilij Arslan’s defeat, the Niceans were ferocious in the defence of their city. The enemy had desecrated their dead so they retaliated by lowering hooks on ropes to seize the corpses of Franks; these were pulled up, stripped and hung over the walls to rot. If the Army of God attacked, stone and arrow shattered head and neck; if the Franks broke through, they were swiftly deluged by flaming missiles.
For a week the siege became a desultory affair of two enemies watching each other like circling dogs, then, abruptly, the atmosphere changed. Count Raymond bustled about accompanied by Tacticius the Greek commander. Ballistae and mangonels from the arsenals of Constantinople appeared in the camp. These were wheeled down to the Leaning Tower to launch a scathing attack of missiles and rocks that drove the defenders from the walls. A new breach was opened, and when darkness fell, the night was illuminated by roaring fires and the light of flaming missiles hurled at the tower. This time the Turks had no opportunity to repair the damage. The star-lit sky was streaked with orange tongues, the silence shattered by the whoosh of missiles, the crash of wood and stones and the cries of both defenders and attackers. As soon as daylight broke, the Poor Brethren of the Temple, to shouts of ‘Deus vult!’ and ‘Toulouse!’, prepared to lead Count Raymond’s force across the makeshift bridge over the moat. Hugh and Godefroi kissed Eleanor before tightening the chain-mail bands across their faces, which left only their eyes exposed. Helmets were strapped on, shields fastened to arms and swords drawn.
Hugh and Godefroi led their company down to the bridge whilst archers, crossbowmen and engineers loosed volley after volley at the walls. The catapults edged even closer to intensify the barrage. Eleanor watched, heart in mouth, as Hugh and Godefroi crossed the rickety bridge. Smoke billowed about, screams and shouts echoed. The knights of Toulouse thronged all about her. Standards were unfurled, men-at-arms in full battle gear waited to reinforce the first assault on those formidable defences. The horror and din of battle whipped Eleanor’s senses as if some wandering demon had seized her soul, her mind, her imagination. She looked up at the empty blue sky bending over those soaring yellow-brick fortifications. Arrows, sling shots and other missiles scored the blue. Oaken bundles, smoking evilly, swept through the air, spouts of flame erupted from the battlements. Eleanor glanced again. Hugh and Godefroi, shields up, were halfway across the bridge when an earsplitting roar cut through the noise of war. Men were pointing at the battlements where scarlet and gold banners displaying the gorgeous eagle of Alexius Comnenus were being draped and hoisted. The city had fallen! Greek forces were inside. The Turks had surrendered! Trumpets called the retreat. Hugh and his company fell back even as more imperial banners fluttered from the ramparts above them. A loud screech cut the air. The great gates of Nicea swung open and Catephracti, blue-silver insignia fluttering from their spear points, came thundering out. Imogene cursed and immediately left, searching for Beltran. Eleanor, feeling weak, eager to escape the confusing storm of war, returned to her tent. She went to lie down on the ready-made palliasse but startled in horror at the two curved daggers, white bone-handles gleaming, pushed deep into the bolster, their blades tied together by a ribbon of blood-red cord…