‘Know ye,’ a voice whispered behind her, ‘what you possess shall escape you and, in the end, return to us.’
Eleanor turned slowly. At first she could see nothing, then she made out a shadow outlined by the slit in the tent through which the mysterious intruder must have entered. He sat cross-legged on the ground, garbed in a white robe, head and face swathed in a black turban exposing only the eyes.
‘The witch woman’s chart.’ The voice stumbled over the Norman French. ‘I know Fulcher gave it to you.’ He extended a gloved hand; the other tapped the hilt of the dagger in the red waistband.
Eleanor tried to speak but couldn’t.
‘The chart!’ the man insisted.
‘My brother,’ Eleanor stammered. The sounds from outside grew stronger, followed by shouts of someone approaching the tent. Eleanor glanced at the main flap then back, but her mysterious visitor had vanished.
Simeon the scribe, talking as ever — God had given him a tongue as nimble as his pen — burst into the tent gabbling the news. How the Emperor had brought ships in ox-drawn carts to the Askanian lake and sent them up against Nicea. How these ships had even captured the wife and family of the Governor of Nicea as they tried to escape. The Turks soon realised that if the Army of God manned those ships, their city would certainly fall and be devastated by fire and sword. They had immediately entered into secret negotiations with Alexius, promising to surrender to him if they and their possessions were spared from the Army of God. Alexius had agreed, sending a high-ranking envoy named Boutoumites into the city to accept the surrender. The leaders of the Army of God had had some inkling of this, but when the news became public, the Franks immediately accused Alexius of duplicity and treachery.
Rumours were rife that Boutoumites had encouraged Tacticius to persuade Count Raymond to attack, writing a note: ‘We have the game in our hand, assault the walls. Do not let the Franks know the true situation but, after sunrise, let them attack the city.’ The leaders of the Army of God knew about the ships and the pressure these would place on the Turks, but they never expected such a swift surrender. The Emperor had kept them in the dark and by nightfall his deceit was common talk around the camp. Tempers rose, especially amongst the Normans from southern Italy led by Bohemond and Tancred, so Alexius moved quickly to mollify them. Cartloads of fresh provisions and wine, baskets, coffers and chests full of precious stones, gold and silver, stacks of weapons, piles of embroidered cloths and lines of sleek, plump horses were dispatched into the camp. The Poor Brethren of the Temple drew their share, ten gold bezants, which went into the common coffer under Godefroi’s care. Later that same night, Eleanor, Hugh, Godefroi, Alberic, Norbert, Theodore and Simeon gathered to meet. The scribe had been taken on to their council because of his clerical skills as well as his knowledge of the shrines of Jerusalem, particularly the Dome of the Rock. Theodore hosted the meeting, welcoming their new recruit, and pointing out that Simeon’s only protection against the rancour of the camp was Hugh and Eleanor, so it was little wonder the scribe had enthusiastically taken their secret oath. On that night, as all the gates of Nicea were opened and the heralds proclaimed how the Army of God would soon march for Antioch, Eleanor told them about her own mysterious visitor.
‘But who could it be?’ Alberic asked. ‘Every one of the Poor Brethren was mustering before the Leaning Tower.’
‘It must be someone in the Army of God,’ Eleanor insisted. ‘The same thing happened in Constantinople.’
‘The Fedawi,’ Theodore explained. ‘Perhaps their assassins lurk hidden amongst us? It is foolish to speculate, but at least we know the importance of Anstritha’s map. Lord Hugh, you have it safe, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Hugh replied absent-mindedly. ‘You have all seen it, but come…’
They turned to fresh news. Bohemond’s phalanx was to leave immediately the following morning. Count Raymond wanted the Poor Brethren of the Temple to join these and act as a link with the rest of the army. No one disagreed, eager for what Hugh called the ‘proper pilgrimage’ to begin in earnest.
Eleanor would never forget their departure. They left Nicea just before the sun rose swiftly in sheets of red-gold flame against the light blue sky. A fitting start for what proved to be a time of wrath, of anger, the beginning of the horrors. Yet, as Eleanor wrote in her chronicle, it started ordinarily enough. She sat perched on one of the carts, Imogene squatting next to her as Bohemond’s column trudged down the old Roman road stretching to the valleys and dusty plateaus leading down to Antioch. They crossed stone bridges built by the ancients over streams and rivulets, and passed the occasional decaying Byzantine guard tower. On either side rolled wild meadows sprinkled with hardy summer flowers; now and again, long strips of ochre-tinted ploughland; here and there a solitary farmstead usually built around the shell of a ruined villa. Clumps of sycamore, holm oak, grey ash, willow and cypress broke the undulating landscape. They passed lonely villages with their dusty trackways, wandering goats, domed wells, silent vineyards and wine presses. The morning air rang with the clatter and rumble of carts, the jingle of harness, the clink of weapons, shouts and cries from the trudging men-at-arms. Dust clouds swirled, staining the black robes of the monks. Spear and lance tips caught the sunlight and flashed it brilliantly back. Faces, white, red and brown, became laced with sweaty dust. Children played or fought with each other. Hymns were chanted. A group of nobles in gorgeously coloured robes left the column escorted by their grooms clad in green and brown; hawks fluttered on their wrists, or strained against the perches, making the jesse-bells tinkle. Young men, leggings pulled up, stood in the streams, busy with string or net to catch fresh fish. Eleanor considered it was more like a day out in the country, visiting friends or enjoying the good weather, than marching to war. Scouts came galloping back: they had glimpsed Turkish patrols but nothing happened that day.
By evening they reached a crossroads near the yawning mouths of two lonely valleys, apparently empty except for the boulders, rocks, shrubs and trees dotting their sides. In between the valley mouths stretched a large, reed-ringed marsh. Bohemond, alarmed by increased sightings of Turkish patrols as well as rumours that the valleys on either side might house more, used the marsh to protect the rear of his camp. Nothing happened that night; it passed quiet and peaceful under the stars. At sunrise the priests gathered the people around the altar carts. Candles glowed in lantern horns and incense circled up into the heavy morning mist as Tancred led a comitatus of knights to scour the valley to the east.
As Mass finished, Tancred came hastening back with alarming news: Turkish horsemen were emerging out of the mist further down the valley. The Franks, still jubilant over what they considered their victory at Nicea and lulled by the calm morning, became excited and curious. Horsemen galloped off to catch sight of the enemy. Women and children mingled with the leaders at the front of the column; eventually these were forced back, becoming an unruly mob. Eleanor glimpsed Bohemond in full chain mail, a towering figure on his powerful black war charger. Riders, casting up clouds of dust, came galloping towards him, turning in the saddle and gesturing back. Eleanor recognised Hugh, Godefroi and Theodore. What they announced must have been truly alarming. Bohemond turned to face the people, ordering them to move back. Hugh, Godefroi and the rest forced their way through, jumping from their saddles, screaming for their harness and weapons.
‘Eleanor, Eleanor!’ Theodore pushed her back towards the tent. He snatched up a wet rag from just inside and wiped the dust from his face. ‘Arm yourselves,’ he gasped. ‘They aren’t Turkish patrols. Kilij Arslan’s entire army is coming out of that valley, thousands and thousands of horsemen. They’ll sweep us away!’ He gestured at Imogene, who stood horror-struck. ‘Arm!’ he yelled, then he snatched at the reins of his horse and clambered into the saddle. ‘Lord Bohemond is sending me back to hasten on the rest. Eleanor…’ He meant to say more, but shrugged, turned his horse and galloped off.