‘Heaven help them,’ Simeon whispered to Eleanor. ‘Look, mistress-sister, I know what that is!’ The defenders were now hoisting up what looked like two great water pots on to the battlements. Instead of being tipped, however, these were carefully lowered and pointed at the struggling Franks retreating towards the outer wall. Black trails of smoke curled around the pots, which immediately spat out an arc of fire, an orangey-red sheet of flame that engulfed the retreating Franks, turning some of them into living torches. The screams were horrendous. Men ran back to help, only to be engulfed in more gushes of fire and a hail of missiles. Eleanor watched in horror as these figures jerked and danced until they collapsed. The horrid view was mercifully cloaked as Tancred’s men, smoke and dust swirling about them, struggled back through the gap in the outer wall.
‘Greek fire,’ Simeon declared. ‘Water and dirt cannot smother it; only vinegar.’
‘What was that? What was that?’ Hugh and Godefroi came bustling across, faces mirroring their conflicting moods: despair at the failure of Tancred’s attack coupled with open relief that they had not committed their own company.
‘Vinegar,’ Simeon declared. ‘Use vinegar and Greek fire can be doused.’
Theodore, overhearing this, agreed and joined in the vigorous discussion that ensued until Imogene’s cry drew their gaze back to the battlements. She was pointing further down to the Quadrangular Tower, the turrets of which rose black against the light blue sky. Three figures, women, their grey hair streaming in the wind, stood between the crenellations, supported by people standing behind them. They had their arms raised, fingers splayed, and although they could not hear a word, Eleanor and her companions realised they were chanting incantations and shouting curses. The figures, stark images against the light, looked sinister and threatening. They were already attracting the attention of Frankish bowmen, who loosed shaft after shaft, but the height and distance were too great.
‘Witches!’ Beltran explained. ‘They always accompany the Ethiopians. I’m surprised Iftikhar has used them.’
Eleanor stared at those grim figures, oblivious to the exclamations around her. Simeon tugged at her sleeve and indicated Tancred’s men, now hurrying up the hill carrying their wounded. One of these, Raimbold Creton, had actually reached the wall only to have his hand severed; this now lay beside his body on a makeshift stretcher. Eleanor was to witness even more gruesome scenes as the Army of God settle down to its siege. No more assaults were to be launched until siege engines were built, yet there was little wood on that dry plain. The leaders eventually decided to send their cattle, horses and other livestock back thirteen miles to the wooded hills and pastures they’d journeyed through. Soldiers were dispatched to guard these as well as to fell timber for the Franks to build their assault weapons. Food also ran low, but the greatest hardship was the lack of water in those arid hills.
At Siloam, Eleanor, dirt-caked and thirsty, braved the whipping arrows of enemy archers above Sion Gate to fill their precious waterskins. Theodore went scouting through the Kedron valley, but the river bed was rock dry and the cisterns all smashed. As the availability of Siloam became known, a general panic to reach the pool ensued before the leaders could stop it. Men and livestock raced, desperate for water; others pressed in carrying their sick. These pushed the first arrivals into the water, churning up the mud, and throngs hastened after them, beating aside the half-maddened livestock. In a few moments the pool became the centre of an ever-increasing angry mob. Men struggled to enter the water, fighting those trying to leave. The banks caved in under the trampling and turned the pool into a muddy mire. The strongest men forced their way through to the pure water by the rocks at the mouth of the spring, whilst the sick and weak were only able to drink the polluted mess along its edges. Those unfortunate enough to gulp the muddy water swallowed leeches which, within a few hours, led to an agonising death. The leaders tried to intervene, imposing order and setting a guard as they furiously debated what to do next.
Eleanor could do nothing but shelter in her shabby tent, tongue swollen, lips cracked. Simeon relayed gossip about the growing desperation amongst the Army of God whilst continuing to insist that Eleanor write it all down in her chronicle. She was too exhausted to do anything but sprawl on her makeshift bed, one arm across her face, staring up at the stained goatskin covering. A hundred thousand had left the Frankish west; fewer than twenty thousand had reached this hideous plain before the grim, embattled walls of Jerusalem. Eleanor idly wondered about their first casualty, Robert the Reeve — what had truly happened there? And the Magus and the Fedawi? Had they all been swept away by the anger of God; were they, the remnant, to starve in full view of the Holy City or be crushed against its walls and massacred by the great host coming out of Egypt?
‘Great news.’ Theodore, covered in a fine sandy dust, wafting away the flies hovering in a black mass round his face, strode into the tent. He squatted down by the bed and grinned at her. Eleanor smiled back. Theodore, with his handsome face and persistent good humour whatever adversity threatened! Yet he’d also given Eleanor new fears, fresh terrors. She felt deeply for him and became highly anxious about news of any affray, ambush or sally. Would Theodore be hurt or, God forbid, even killed? And when those formidable city walls were stormed, would he survive the violent blood-letting? She often prayed that if Theodore were to die, she would die with him.
‘Good news,’ he repeated.
Eleanor apologised and drew herself up. Theodore cocked his head at the shouting and cheering that rang through the camp.
‘That’s the good news,’ he declared. ‘Twenty Genoese galleys put in at the ruined port of Jaffa and begged the Army of God for help. Of course our leaders were delighted. The fleet would provide a good supply of timber, perhaps more food and water. Two companies of knights and bowmen were dispatched down to the coast under Raymond Pilet. Enemy cavalry attacked them. Pilet and his men broke through and reached the ruined walls of Jaffa with enemy shields and cloaks draped over their saddles. The Genoese sailors greeted our men joyfully. They had been cruising up and down the coast for days, searching for any trace of the Army of God. Raymond told them about our hardships and the sailors immediately prepared a feast of bread, wine and cooked fish. Franks and Genoese sat down together to celebrate in the roofless hall of Jaffa Castle, lit by fires, candles and lantern horns. Platters were filled and emptied, goblets of wine passed round. They even brought in the watch from the ships to have their share of the feast.’ Theodore shrugged. ‘They celebrated too well. An Egyptian fleet far out at sea glimpsed the lights of their party and stole in to block the harbour mouth. When dawn broke, the Genoese hastened to their ships but found it futile to offer battle; all they could do was abandon their galleys and carry ashore a good part of their weapons and supplies. So that,’ Theodore gestured with his head, ‘is the good news. The Genoese have just entered the camp.’
At first Eleanor failed to see how it was good news. Matters continued to deteriorate. Each day when the sun rose the heat struck her tent, rousing her from a sweaty sleep after an uneasy night. Sharp winds gusted through the ravines and valleys, blowing clouds of dust from the deep hollows of the surrounding desert. Water continued to be scarce. Skins of foul water, brought in on camels, sold for high prices, whilst she and others had little release from the harsh grind of each day. Eyes were dust-reddened and throats silted, whilst the stench of dead animals hung heavy over the camp. Reports flowed in how the herds of livestock taken up into the hills were being attacked by Turks, who also hampered any efforts to find water. Men began to desert. They reached the river Jordan, bathed in it and gathered some reeds as a sign that they had completed their pilgrimage, yet where could they go? Turks roamed the countryside, and the port of Jaffa was firmly in their hands.