‘ “Are you awake?” St Andrew asked.
‘ “My Lord, I am not asleep.”
‘ “Have you done what I have told you to do?”
‘I replied, “Lord, I have prayed for you to send someone else to them. I am only a poor man, they will not believe me.” He replied that God had chosen Peter Bartholomew from amongst all men as a grain of wheat is gathered from chaff because he could see in me merit and favour.’ Peter then explained how this message comforted him, though he had still remained silent, until now.
The news of Peter Bartholomew’s vision spread through the city, as did his offer to test the truthfulness of his message by going to the Church of St Peter and searching for the lance. Other visionaries came forward recounting similar tales. Soothsayers and conjurors recalled the meteor that had fallen over Antioch, the earthquake, and how heavenly warriors had been seen amongst their ranks.
Eleanor listened with interest. She tried to entice Theodore into conversation but he simply pressed his finger against her lips and would not be drawn. Hugh and Godefroi acted likewise. They were now both desperate, urging the count to go to the newly converted Church of St Peter the Apostle and search for the lance.
‘It is our only hope,’ they whispered. ‘If that is found, the great relic will be our rallying call.’
At last the count agreed. Accompanied by Theodore, Hugh, Godefroi, Peter Bartholomew and others, he went to the Church of St Peter; this was cleared of worshippers, though people gathered around the doors, the crowd increasing as word spread through the city. Paving stones were raised, and the spot the visionary had pointed out was feverishly searched, but nothing was found. Count Raymond left St Peter’s to jeers. Hugh, Godefroi and Peter Bartholomew, however, continued to dig. Theodore told Eleanor what happened next. They had cleared the earth, digging deep, when Peter Bartholomew himself stepped into the pit wearing only his shirt. He knelt for a while offering solemn prayers to God, and a short while later, dislodging a rock in the wall of earth around him, put his hand in and drew out the spear head, the sacred point of the holy lance. He kissed this and held it up.
‘A sign!’ he cried. ‘God wills it. We have God’s approval.’
The news of the finding of the holy lance swept through the city. A sign had been granted! A miracle had taken place! The leaders immediately met in council and voted that Bohemond should take command of the entire army for the next fifteen days. Adhémar ordered three days of prayer and fasting as well as processions through the streets, invocations, litanies and masses. Exultation now replaced despair. The Franks believed the Angel of Death had withdrawn. The army roused itself and prepared to leave the city to meet Khebogha in full battle. Eleanor, shaken from her lethargy, tried to join in the celebrations, but she and Simeon were kept close in the merchant’s house. Eleanor did not object, as she did not wish to become a burden on the rest. A way forward was now open. They would have to fight or die a lingering death.
Eleanor admired her brother’s cunning, though as she confided to Theodore, she was growing increasingly alarmed by Peter Bartholomew’s change of character as he was lionised and revered amongst the Army of God. He waxed full of fresh visions, becoming the virtual mouthpiece of the Almighty. The leaders accepted the sacred lance but became increasingly jealous of Peter Bartholomew’s insistence that Count Raymond had been specially chosen by God to carry it. Hugh and Godefroi realised that their newly enhanced prophet had to be curbed. Quiet words of advice were given, and the sacred relic was formally handed over to Bishop Adhémar in a public ceremony. The leaders were satisfied, though Bohemond, raging around the city like a ravenous lion, was dismissive of the lance, more concerned about organising the army for battle. The Franks now numbered about twenty-five thousand, but only three hundred horses were fit for battle. Nevertheless, Bohemond intended to gamble, using tactics similar to those employed against Ridwan of Aleppo. Five divisions were organised. Those knights who could not ride were organised into tight phalanxes of foot. They were given strict lectures on the tactics of the Turks, the importance of staying together and of following the directions of their respective leaders. At first Eleanor could not understand why Bohemond, his yellow hair now cropped close, face all fiery, those strange blue eyes gleaming, became a constant visitor to their house in the Street of Incense. Stranger still, he brought precious food, baskets of bread and bowls full of sweet delicacies. The house had its own stable, and three horses, fairly plump and strong, were also brought in and given the best fodder. Eleanor noticed how she, Theodore and Simeon became the principal recipients of the food, secretly served once darkness fell, away from prying eyes.
On the Feast of the Birth of St John the Baptist, Bohemond, garbed in a stinking, stained leather hauberk and dark blue leggings, his Spanish boots all worn and scuffed, came to join them at the evening meal. He loudly proclaimed how St John was his patron saint and that he would celebrate the feast day. He came blustering into the house, clasping Hugh and Godefroi’s hands, patting Simeon on the shoulder, embracing Theodore and giving Eleanor a fierce hug that lifted her off the ground, his unshaven stubble prickling her face. He dropped her as he would a bundle of cloth, then scratched the sweat beads on his neck.
‘Lord knows how I’d love a woman thrashing beneath me, but don’t tell that to the bishop!’ Bohemond spread his hands and roared with laughter at his own joke. Then he plumped down on the cushions and gestured at the others to join him. His great hands broke the unleavened bread, stubby fingers searched out olives from the bowl, great white teeth tore the cooked quail flesh. Every so often he would gulp from his goblet and thrust it out for Simeon to refill. He burped and winked at Eleanor, then licked his fingers, leaned across and thanked her for the deliverance of the Twin Sisters tower.
‘And Firuz?’ she asked.
‘Dead.’ Bohemond pulled his face all solemn, eyes mournful. ‘He was killed by mistake in the first foray.’
Eleanor caught a shift in those light blue eyes and wondered if Firuz had been marked out as too untrustworthy to use any further.
At last the great giant declared himself satisfied and clambered up to inspect, as he put it, his ‘lovely lads’ who guarded doors and gateways against any spy or eavesdropper.
‘Not only from the Turks,’ Theodore murmured. ‘There’s growing bad blood between Raymond and Bohemond over who will hold Antioch.’
‘I heard that.’ Bohemond came back into the room. He patted Theodore on the back and sat down on the cushions.
‘But first, before we sell the bearskin, let’s kill the bear!’ He dipped his finger into his wine cup and on a white napkin drew a crude map of Antioch. ‘Here is the citadel on Mount Silpius, held by the Turks. They can communicate with the enemy outside by raising flags as well as by messenger. Each of the main gates, St George, Bridge Gate, Duke Gate and St Paul’s, is now besieged by the Turks. Further to the north lies Khebogha’s main camp. They have about eighty thousand men to our twenty-five thousand. They must have heard about this bloody…’ Bohemond checked himself, ‘our sacred lance but they certainly don’t know that we’ll fight! Out tactics will be simple. The Army of God will deploy in five divisions. The first will be led by Hugh of Paris. He will swiftly sally out and attack the enemy, driving them off, creating time and space for the rest to leave.’