In the end Theodore’s assurances proved right. By the end of June the first timbers came down from the hills, dragged or wheeled on carts by mules and camels or carried on the backs of men. Godfrey of Bouillon marshalled the Genoese to help cut timbers and plait ropes for the catapults, keeping them busy with the mallets, spikes, nails and axes they’d brought from their ships. Godfrey’s engineer, Gaston de Béarn, was placed in overall command of the workmen, whilst the Genoese craftsman William Embriaco was assigned to Count Raymond of Toulouse. Everyone was given a task. Eleanor carried wood and prepared ropes. An array of dreadful siege weapons rose up in the camp like hideous creatures from the underworld. A massive battering ram with an iron head shielded by a wattle roof; huge catapults with twisting ropes and deep cups; numerous scaling ladders and a range of portable wattle screens behind which soldiers could approach the walls. Count Raymond moved his companies to the south opposite Sion Gate, and concentrated on filling the moat, announcing that if anyone brought three stones to cast into it they’d be given a penny. After three days and nights, a section of the moat was filled. More mantlets were organised. Each knight was to furnish two such screens and one ladder. The stone-throwers, powered by twisted ropes, were placed on wheels so they could be moved from point to point. Sows, or long sheds open at each end, were constructed so they could be pushed up to the wall to shield the sappers trying to break through.
The common consensus, however, was that the walls would have to be stormed rather than mined. The Franks placed their main hope in two fearsome siege towers built upon wheeled platforms that could be brought up against the walls. Each tower had three storeys. On the lowest were the men who pushed the tower forward; the middle storey, about as high as the level of the ramparts of Jerusalem, was for the armoured knights to cross to the wall; whilst on the upper level archers would cover the rush of the knights.
The defenders of Jerusalem watched intently and prepared their defences. They brought mangonels on to the walls to be in close firing range. They also took careful measures to protect those sections of the wall they thought would be threatened from bombardment by hanging over sacks of straw and ship ropes, thick and closely woven, to cushion the stone against attacks from the Frankish catapults. The Army of God, now fully intent on the capture of the city, demonstrated that no mercy would be shown. During one of their forays they captured a leading Muslim commander, treated him honourably but asked him to convert. When he refused, they took him out in front of the Tower of David, where he was decapitated by one of Godfrey’s knights. A few days later the Franks caught a spy coming up out of Egypt. They decided that if he wanted to enter the city then he should. Still alive, he was fastened to a catapult. He was too heavily weighted down and was not hurled far, but fell on sharp stones near the wall and broke his neck instantly.
The mood in the Frankish camp changed imperceptibly. The machines were ready, the formidable towers rising up; food and water was organised. Hopes rose, only to be dashed when Hugh and Godefroi brought news that the leaders were beginning to quarrel amongst themselves again. Objections had been raised against Tancred for hoisting his standard above Bethlehem, whilst the leaders were also debating about what was to be done when Jerusalem was taken. The clergy became involved, pointing out that Jerusalem was the Holy City and should have no king but Christ. Other titles were put forward: governor or regent. Hugh and Godefroi listened and took council with their own company. It was time for another vision. Peter Desiderius came forward. In a dream, he proclaimed before the council, his words spreading quickly through the camp, the saintly Adhémar of Le Puy had visited him and warned him that the Lord was not pleased. The army needed to purify itself. They must confess their sins, purge their guilt and bring themselves to a state of unity and grace before the assault was launched. Once again this vision was accepted. The common people thronged around the tents and pavilions of their leaders, urging that this be so. An order went out. On 8 July 1099, priests and monks armed with crosses and the relics of saints would lead a procession of knights and every able-bodied man and woman before the walls of Jerusalem. Trumpets would be blown, standards brandished. Eleanor, Theodore and the rest marched with the Frankish host as it processed barefoot, singing hymns and raising crosses around the city. From the battlements the defenders mocked them, loosing stones and arrows, but the procession was completed. A fast was ordered and everyone went to a priest to have their sins shriven; even the great leaders clasped hands and swore eternal amity.
The attack would soon commence. To the south of the city Raymond of Toulouse moved his tower closer to the dry moat. In the north, Godfrey of Bouillon tried to mislead the defenders, who had been busy raising the level of the wall opposite the second soaring siege tower. Tancred, Hugh and Godefroi were sent out to spy, and returned to report how that section of the fortifications was almost impregnable. A sharp discussion took place. Theodore was present and he later gave the information to Eleanor, who included it in her chronicle. Godfrey of Bouillon realised that their great attack must not fail, so when night fell, he gave secret orders for the tower to be dismantled timber by timber. The separate parts would be carried a mile further along the wall to where the fortifications were lower and the ground more level. The same applied to the mantlets and stone-throwers. Under the cloak of darkness the great siege tower was literally stripped, dismantled storey by storey, the beams passed down to waiting soldiers. Silence was ordered. No candles or lanterns were lit, nor did they make use of oxen-pulled sledges, as the garrison might hear these and sally out. Progress was slow, but by dawn, the defenders of the city realised that their preparations to protect that section of the wall had failed: Godfrey of Bouillon had moved his entire attack a mile further south. Nevertheless, the stone-throwers and tower had to be rebuilt. More days passed. On the evening of 13 July, however, everything was ready. The order was given. At dawn the following morning, the Army of God would launch its all-out assault on the city of Jerusalem.
‘Days of Anger, Days of Fire, Days of Vengeance!’ was the phrase Eleanor of Payens used in her chronicle to describe the furious final assault on the Holy City. A time of deep anguish, of bitter loss and sordid betrayal, yet she wanted to capture it all. She sent Simeon to collect stories and tales that she could then weave alongside her own about that season of blood, of ferocious courage on both sides, a savagery that must have made Satan and all his fallen angels weep. Everyone realised judgement was imminent. The bowl of God’s fury was to be tipped out, but whom would it consume? On the evening of 13 July, the Year of Our Lord’s Incarnation 1099, the Portal of the Temple gathered to break its last bread and share out wine. Norbert said grace. Alberic delivered a brief homily and Peter Desiderius provided one more rendering of his vision of Adhémar of Le Puy.
They had all gathered under a shabby awning to make their peace and prepare. Eleanor, sitting between Theodore and Simeon, did not care for visions. Simeon’s teeth were chattering, as every able-bodied man and woman had been summoned to join the general muster and array at dawn the following morning. Theodore, on her right, sat cradling his sword. He’d given Eleanor a ring, slipping it from his finger on to hers, then pressing her hand close.