‘It will take more than gold to buy you friends.’
‘I did not offer it to you.’
‘I would not have taken it.’ Bohemond glanced around at the princes, perhaps sensing that he was looking on some of them for the last time. ‘Take his money, if you like. Take it and make yourselves his servants. Feed his vanity and his envy. But when his gold runs out, or you tire of being an old man’s pawn, come to Antioch and join me. I will be waiting there.’
He spun on his heel and walked to the door. Every footstep echoed like a hammer blow. He led his horse outside, hoisted himself into the saddle, and cantered away. The last I saw of him was his cloak swirling behind him, a blood-red stain against the white snow.
A cold breeze swept through the doors, as if the entire congregation had drawn breath. I glanced back at Raymond, who stood still as a statue over his chests of treasure, his face vivid with triumph.
‘We are well rid of him,’ he declared, trying to force a jovial tone that did not suit the mood around him. ‘But surely you will not spurn my generous offer. There is no shame in it,’ he assured them.
The other princes glanced at each other uncertainly, refusing to meet his cajoling stare.
‘I cannot take your gold.’ All attention turned to Duke Godfrey. ‘I refused the emperor of the Greeks when he offered his treasure, and now I refuse yours. I am the Duke of Lorraine from the line of Charlemagne himself; I cannot be any man’s vassal.’
‘You need not be my vassal,’ Raymond pleaded. ‘I do not need any return for my charity. All I want is the unity of the Army of God, and the speedy conquest of Jerusalem.’
‘Then we want the same thing. But your gold will not make me want it more, and I can afford to pay my army myself. When you are ready to march to Jerusalem, and only then, I will join you — as a free man beholden to no one but God.’
Godfrey was not a natural orator: in public as in private, his manner felt brusque and detached. He had none of Bohemond’s showmanship, nor the ability to whip up crowds to his cause. But his restraint, which too often seemed the product of arrogance, did confer a certain dignity. He bowed to Count Raymond, nodded to his fellow princes, and walked stiffly to the church door. His knights followed him out, threading their way through the thinning crowd.
‘Duke Godfrey is right.’ Now it was the Count of Flanders who spoke. ‘I do not say that Bohemond is above reproach — but nor are you, Count Raymond. If you offer money to go to Jerusalem, then I am going there anyway; if you offer the money to fight Bohemond, then I reject it utterly.’ He pushed his way out of the square, followed by his knights.
The triumph drained from Raymond’s face though the smile remained fixed there, the skeleton of emotion. His hand trembled as he leaned on the reliquary’s column for support.
‘Is there any sensible man among you?’ Desperation flecked his voice. ‘Is there anyone whom Bohemond has not poisoned with his lies and malice?’ As if to remind them of his riches, or perhaps out of nervous instinct, he dug his hand into the chest of gold again and let the coins trickle through his fingers.
‘I will take your gold.’ Tancred sauntered forward, immune to the stares of surprise and suspicion he drew. ‘I am not too proud to accept aid if it will bring me closer to Jerusalem.’
He knelt before Raymond, putting his hands in the older man’s. ‘I swear-’
For the second time that day, the council was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Tancred broke off, while men looked back in fear lest Bohemond had returned with his knights to finish his feud. But there were no Norman hosts, only a single rider on a spent horse. Reining it in, he flung himself down and pushed his way into the church. He wore no hat or helmet: his hair was tangled and filthy, and matted with crusts of ice. He must have ridden through the night.
He dropped to his knees before Count Raymond. ‘Mercy, Lord,’ he gasped, crossing himself. ‘There is a mutiny among the pilgrims at Ma’arat. They have risen against your garrison and are tearing down the defences. They say they will not wait to proceed to Jerusalem, but must go immediately. God has willed it.’
21
The council ended in uproar. Count Raymond’s men rushed to their camp and began pulling it down, churning the snow to slush, while grooms saddled horses and squires stuffed their belongings into saddlebags. With nothing to pack, I stood by my horse with Nikephoros and Aelfric and watched as, one by one, the princes hurried out of the town. Whatever hopes had existed for the union of the Army of God died in the snows of Rugia. Some marched north towards Antioch, others west to the coast. A few followed Raymond south to Ma’arat.
For all our haste, it was well after noon before we set out, and the sky was already darkening. Even then, we could not travel quickly. The fresh snow cast a treacherous veil over the ruts and holes in the road, and we had not gone far when we found it blocked completely by a fallen fir tree. I clutched my reins tighter, fearing an ambush, but it was only the weight of snow that had toppled the old tree. A company of Norman knights had already dismounted and were hacking at it with axes, while their captain walked his horse around them and shouted angry orders. He wheeled around as he heard our approach, and trotted up the road to meet us. Unruly curls stuck out from beneath his fur hat, and his dark eyes were alive with malice — which only deepened as he recognised me.
‘Can it be Demetrios Askiates?’ A soft, dangerous laugh. ‘I saw you at the council. I had heard you were dead — or perhaps that you had gone to whore yourself to Ishmaelites.’
I fought back a wave of hatred and bile. I had not forgotten the vision of Tancred toying with Pakrad as he seared out his eyes at Ravendan. Nor was that the worst atrocity I had seen him inflict on captives during this campaign. I gestured to the tree. ‘Has Count Raymond made you his forester, now that you have taken his gold and made yourself his servant?’
Tancred’s horse shivered. Behind him, his men had managed to chop the tree free of its splintered stump. With a heave, they lifted the trunk off the road and rolled it into a ditch.
‘You should be more careful when you address your betters,’ Tancred warned me. ‘Perhaps you do not know how much you have to lose.’ Again the dangerous laugh. ‘Have you had news of your family recently? They are not as safe as you suppose. If I were you, I would hurry to Ma’arat as quickly as I could.’
He had spurred his horse and was already moving, his last words almost drowned by wind and the beat of hooves. I kicked my own mount to follow, but she was a feeble creature compared with his. Before I had gone a hundred yards, he was lost from sight.
A chill dread held me in its grip for the rest of our ride. Night fell; further down the valley the snow had fallen as rain, turning the road to a bog, but Count Raymond insisted we press on through the darkness. Long before we reached Ma’arat, a writhing skein of flames in the sky ahead served as our beacon.
By midnight we had come close enough to see the individual fires burning ahead, and to make out the shadows of torn buildings around them. Soon, half a dozen fires seemed to break away from the main blaze like sparks, but they did not fly up and fade to cinders. Instead they drew nearer, growing larger and brighter until they resolved themselves into a troop of horsemen with torches in their hands. They halted before us and saluted.
‘What has happened to my city?’ Raymond demanded. ‘Is this Bohemond’s doing?’
The knight looked surprised. ‘Bohemond has not been here. I thought he was at the council. This is Peter Bartholomew’s work.’
Raymond pounded a fist on his saddle pommel, so hard that the horse below almost unseated him in its fright. ‘Peter Bartholomew was under my patronage and my protection,’ he raged. ‘I sponsored his vanity so that he would keep the pilgrims obedient. Has he lost his command of them entirely?’
‘Not at all. He preached this.’
All the men around Raymond edged back, anticipating another eruption of fury. Instead, he sat very still.
‘It was yesterday evening, at sundown,’ the knight continued. ‘He summoned all the pilgrims and recounted a vision, how Saint Peter had appeared to him and revealed God’s anger that His people suffered and delayed because of the avarice of princes.’ The knight shot Raymond a fearful look. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but that is what he said.’
‘Go on.’
‘He preached that a house built on error cannot stand. All at once a devilish madness seized the pilgrims and
