In his camp Khebogha calmly organised his army into two broad divisions. Standards and banners were unfurled. The holy cry went up: ‘Allah is God! There is no God but Allah!’ The devout Muslims, once this prayer was finished, rose from their cloaks and makeshift prayer carpets and donned their battle harness. The Turks had been assured that they would spring a trap and easily destroy the Frankish army for good. Unbeknown to them, a mass of desperate soldiers, also trusting in God, were tramping through the dust towards them. Traders and farmers, garbed in rags and armed with rusty meathooks and axes, marched steadily behind their leaders; some even walked hand-in-hand with their young sons. Priests clothed in the vestments of the Mass chanted prayers as they grasped cudgels and clubs.
The Turkish advance guard attacked the Franks on their right flank, setting fire to the dry weeds along the river bank. The Army of God, behind their sacred standard, simply walked through the fire, beating at the flames with their cloaks. The smoke billowed. Turkish horsemen galloped through it like wraiths, fierce spectres armed with spears and rounded shields. They were met by a savage assault which brought down both horse and rider; lance, spear, axe and dagger whipped through the air, clubs rose and fell, swords hissed and hacked. The Army of God suffered casualties, men falling from every type of wound; these were left on the ground with grass or wild flowers thrust into their mouths as their host for the last sacrament. They whispered their dying confessions to the breeze and passed their weapons to the more able.
The Turkish cavalry charged, but the Frankish infantry still held firm. Again the Turks attacked, then recoiled in horror as mounted grey shadows thundered through the battle murk towards them. Mailed knights, lances couched, smashed into the Turkish line. More knights appeared, lances gone, drawing their long death-bearing swords. Turks fell, to be swept up by the Frankish foot now surging forward. The ground grew slippery with blood. Men staggered around screaming, with intestines pierced or tumbling out, their throbbing wounds pumping blood. Then the hammer blow. Bohemond’s scarlet banner appeared! The mailed giant led his elite fighters deep into the Turkish squadrons. The Army of God surged forward like some huge boulder crashing down a mountainside. The Turks became nervous and panic-stricken. The air rang with screams of ‘Deus vult! Deus vult!’ Mailed horsemen exultantly chanted hymns and psalms. Knights even took off their helmets and flung them at the enemy. Heavenly riders were glimpsed fighting on the Frankish side. The first Turkish line shattered completely, then broke and fled.
In Khebogha’s camp, Theodore had already moved Eleanor and Simeon to safety. In the confusion they seized their horses and raced out to hide in the dense shrubbery around the nearby lake. Back in the Turkish camp, chaos rather than strategy prevailed. The Atabeg was confused. The reports he was receiving could not be true. His second line was marshalled. The main army was scarcely moving forward when the first squadrons of Turkish cavalry came hurtling back screaming their fear, pointing over their shoulders at the swirling dust and those demons on horseback. Bohemond’s scarlet banner came fluttering towards them. The two Turkish hosts mingled. Confusion and panic spread. The ranks dissolved. Command collapsed. Banners and standards fell. Officers were unable to give orders. The Turks started to fight amongst themselves, desperate to flee. Panic turned to flight as the Army of God, horse and foot, smashed into Khebogha’s disorganised force. The Turkish leaders galloped off; their army followed. The Frankish host poured into the camp, spearing women, looting the food supplies, pillaging the gilded pavilions, ransacking the cedarwood chests and coffers, plunging their filthy hands into mountains of pearls and precious stones, dragging away the tapestries, gorgeous hangings and carpets.
By the time Eleanor and Simeon returned to the camp, victory was certain, Khebogha’s defeat total. Bohemond and the other leaders had already set up court in Khebogha’s pavilion. Theodore and Eleanor, with Simeon trailing behind, were ushered in to receive the leaders’ grateful thanks. Goblets of wine and sherbet were thrust into their hands, along with soft sweet bread and strips of cooked meat. Bohemond was bellowing that whatever they saw they could have. Eleanor simply rested on the cushions. Theodore delivered his report and, once again, received the giant Norman’s thanks, then they were dismissed. Eleanor begged to be taken somewhere safe and quiet. Officers were already beginning to impose order amongst the troop when Theodore’s name was shouted. They turned and walked back. A group of German swordsmen had a prisoner manacled between them, Eleanor recognised Baldur, his finery all torn. The Germans gestured at their prisoner, and one of them lifted a sword, making a mock show of cutting off Baldur’s head. Theodore spoke quietly to them, and the Germans lowered their swords respectfully. Theodore beckoned Baldur to approach as Eleanor came up behind him.
‘What is it, brother?’ Theodore asked.
Baldur licked dirty, blood-caked lips. ‘My life, brother. I suspected the truth yet I did not betray you.’
‘True.’ Theodore nodded. ‘You did not.’ He turned to the German officer. ‘Give this man some bread and water, his weapons and a horse. Let him go. Count Bohemond will stand guarantor for him.’
The German spat into the dust, shrugged and gave the order. Before they led Baldur off, the Turk turned and walked back. He took off his belt and thrust it into Theodore’s hands.
‘When you find your traitor,’ he whispered, ‘hang him with that.’
Part 8
Marrat: The Feast of St Hilary, 13 January 1099
Regnavit a ligno Deus.
(God reigns from a tree.)
Venantius Fortunatus, ‘Hymn In Honour of the Cross’
‘Babylon has become the habitation of demons and the house of every foul spirit and the cage of every unclean and hateful devil.’ Peter Bartholomew’s voice boomed out across the Army of God camped outside the town of Marrat in northern Syria.
‘Not Babylon,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘No demons there! All the devils have come to Marrat.’ She sipped at the goblet of watered wine, then passed it to Simeon, who looked anxiously at his mistress-sister. Over the last six months he had come to love this eccentric Frankish lady. Eleanor was amusing and brave, though full of ideas and notions that bordered on the childlike. Simeon could never understand why she suffered such bouts of spiritual darkness. Didn’t she know how, in this world, wicked men constantly bustled about, busy with their evil deeds? Had they not often talked about that? How there was little difference between Frank and Turk?
‘Is it ending, Simeon?’ Eleanor stared out at the flames licking the night sky above the city of Marrat. The evening breeze carried the exultant yells of the mob as they tore down the city walls.
‘I don’t think so. At least we are journeying to Jerusalem,’ Simeon added mournfully. ‘Your brother and Lord Godefroi have seen to that.’