him and smoothed them down, he turned to the bishop with a mocking gleam in his eye.
‘My apologies, Your Grace. I think perhaps my late arrival interrupted you.’
The bishop’s mouth flapped open; his head popped forward like a man trying to force a cough, but he made no sound.
‘The bishop was reminding us of our sacred obligation to march on Jerusalem,’ said Godfrey.
Bohemond looked puzzled. ‘Had any of us forgotten it?’ His gaze touched on Count Raymond, who sat up with indignation.
‘I have not forgotten my duty.
‘Only because my men threw you out.’
The crowd around us bridled at Bohemond’s jibe, muttering their displeasure like spectators in the hippodrome. Though scattered among the jeers I heard laughter, and several men squawking like chickens. They could not have been Bohemond’s knights, for he had brought none.
‘Antioch does not belong to you,’ snapped Raymond, upset by the noise.
‘Come and claim it, if you want it. I will be ready for you.’ Bohemond tapped a fist against his waist, where his sword should have been. ‘But I did not come here to talk about Antioch. I thought our object was Jerusalem. Perhaps Count Raymond has forgotten that.’
‘Antioch and Jerusalem are inseparable.’ The Count of Flanders, one of the lesser princes, pronounced what everyone knew. ‘If we cannot agree how to leave Antioch, then there is little point discussing how we reach Jerusalem.’
The hapless bishop, all but forgotten, rose to his feet. Raymond was quicker.
‘Why dance around the truth? The Count of Flanders is right. Bohemond holds Antioch in defiance of our oaths to the emperor, and of all our claims. If he does not surrender it to us, we will stay here until he compels us.’
‘Do not speak too freely for other men,’ Godfrey cautioned him. ‘I besieged Antioch for eight months and led my men in the battle against Kerbogha. By rights of conquest, I have as much claim as any man to Antioch. But I renounce it. I would rather have ten minutes’ prayer in the Holy Sepulchre than a lifetime owning all the lands and riches of Antioch. Who else can say the same?’
For a moment, his challenge echoed in the silent church. Godfrey’s face shone with righteousness as he stared around at his colleagues, then looked down to his right where Tancred sat.
Tancred shrugged. ‘I have no claim to Antioch.’
One by one, the princes repeated the declaration — some with careless ease, others, mostly those who had fought hardest in the siege, with obvious reluctance. Eventually only Raymond and Bohemond had not spoken. Godfrey looked to Raymond.
‘We have all made our vow. For the cause of Christ and the unity of the Army of God, will you join us?’
Raymond stuck out his chin. ‘If Bohemond renounces his claim.’
All eyes turned to Bohemond. He sighed.
‘Nobody doubts Duke Godfrey’s piety. But it is easy for him to renounce what he does not have. I possess Antioch, by right of conquest and of fact. I will not give it up.’
‘Then I will stay here until you do.’
Three eyes — two hot with anger, one hard as iron — stared at each other. The lance’s reliquary glittered on its pedestal between them, while murmurs of disappointment swelled all around. Most of it seemed to me to be directed at Count Raymond. Bohemond evidently thought the same, for the sound brought a cruel smile to his lips as he sat down again. Raymond remained on his feet, trembling like an oak tree under the first touch of the forester’s axe.
‘There will be a reckoning for this,’ he warned. ‘You are a thief, Bohemond — even your cursed father knew it when he disowned you. But you will not enjoy the spoils of your crime.’
Bohemond’s face flushed crimson as his cloak, and though the smile remained fixed on his face I saw his curled fingers clenching involuntarily into fists. Even after rising from obscurity to become lord of Antioch and first among the princes, he could not forgive the father who had disowned him in preference to a younger half-brother from a second marriage. But he said nothing.
Godfrey rose. In the grey light of the church the princes’ faces were dark and distraught — all except Bohemond, who seemed to glow with a savage energy. ‘We came here to make peace: not to start a war. Have we grown so complacent since we defeated Kerbogha? We are beset by enemies on all sides. If you pursue this quarrel with Bohemond, Count Raymond, we will all die.’
‘Not all of you,’ said Bohemond. ‘Only those who fight against me.’
‘Jerusalem,’ squeaked the bishop. ‘Keep your hearts on Jerusalem. That is where we must go.’
‘When we have finished our business here.’
The bishop stamped his foot, though you could not hear it above the rising noise. He looked close to tears, as if he could not comprehend his impotence. ‘In the name of Christ, I implore you, mend your quarrel and-’
‘I will go to Jerusalem.’ Bohemond’s voice rose over the din and smothered it. ‘I took an oath to capture the holy city or die, and I will fulfil it.’
The bishop stared at him hopefully. Raymond’s face was dark with suspicion.
‘But no army marches in January. Look out there.’ He pointed through the church doors, which no one had thought to close since his entry. ‘Can an army march through that? Let us wait until March, until the spring of the new year. When the earth has thawed and we can feed off the land, then we will go up to Jerusalem. I will lead the army there myself.’
‘Hah!’ Raymond strode to the centre of the square of benches and spun around, looking at each man in turn. He lifted the reliquary from its pillar and hugged it to his chest. ‘It was a Provencal pope who preached this great pilgrimage, a Provencal bishop who guided us through our greatest perils, and a Provencal pilgrim who found this holy relic. It will be a Provencal who leads the army to Jerusalem, and it will be a Provencal who first stands atop its walls and looks down on the holy soil that Christ trod.’
He put the reliquary back down, hard, and leaned on its pedestal. His gaze bored into Bohemond, who did not quail but gave a short, dismissive laugh.
‘I will not follow any man to Jerusalem. But I will go there with the Army of God.’
The Duke of Normandy stood. The worried expression that had creased his face from the start now threatened to fold it in two. ‘I do not care who leads us to Jerusalem.’ Approving cheers sounded around the church, though he did not seem to draw comfort from them. ‘But I do not want to delay. In August we said we would wait until September. In September we delayed to November, in November we deferred to January and now Bohemond wishes us to wait again until March.’ He spread his palms, showing empty hands. ‘I mortgaged my dukedom to my dearest enemy, my brother the king of England, to pay for this pilgrimage. All I have earned by it are debt and suffering. If it brings me at last to Jerusalem, I will not begrudge one penny of it. But if our quest ends here, in pride and hatred, then my sacrifices and all our sacrifices will have been for nothing. Does any of us want that? I say we should march immediately, before I can no longer afford to keep my army.’
A wave of sympathetic murmurings echoed around the church. Embarrassed but grateful, the Duke of Normandy sat down and looked expectantly at Raymond.
Raymond hesitated. Without anger animating it, his face seemed old and haggard. ‘I swear before Christ that I would march through storms and fields of ice to reach Jerusalem, fasting all the way. But I cannot leave injustice and usurpation behind. However. .’ He raised his arm. At the back of the church, I heard a commotion, and the grating of heavy boxes being dragged forward. ‘If any man will follow me, then I will give him his reward.’
On cue, four knights appeared at the edge of the square of princes. Manoeuvring their way through a gap between benches, they manhandled two heavy strongboxes into the middle of the square. With fat keys they undid the locks that bound them, and pulled open the lids.
Every man in the church was standing, craning to see, as Count Raymond dug into one of the chests. A cascade of gold and silver coins fell from his hand as he lifted it.
‘Who will join me in the battles to come?’
Bohemond moved forward, stepping around the reliquary so that he stood almost touching the count. Both men were tall but Bohemond had the advantage: he stared down on Raymond, cold scorn written across his face.
