this, not even on the mountaintop at Ravendan. ‘That is not his book.’ He took his boot off John’s throat and delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. ‘You should keep your dogs better trained,’ he hissed at Count Raymond, ‘or they will pull you down and devour you. Bring Peter Bartholomew to me.’
Raymond squirmed. ‘I cannot-’
‘He will not come.’ John had struggled to his feet. ‘Not until the appointed hour.’ He circled around like a cornered dog, keeping his eyes fixed on Godfrey. ‘And then, Duke Godfrey, beware, for his revenge will be terrible. The good wheat he will gather into his granary, but the
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There were no councils after that. Godfrey’s army crossed the bridge and made their camp to the south-east of the city, well away from the Provencals, while Tancred extricated his men from Raymond’s camp and took them south on foraging raids. Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrim horde stayed aloof on their hilltop. On the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation, the Franks celebrated the start of their new year. It seemed to bring new life to the world: wildflowers bloomed on the hillside among the pines, and in the valley green buds began to sprout from the skeletal boughs of fig trees. A white sun shone from cloudless skies, warming the earth to dust. Even the crack and thud of siege weapons was, for a time, drowned out by birdsong. But it did nothing to brighten the mood of the Army of God. You had only to look at their faces to see the thunderclouds that gathered over them, to feel the charge in the sultry calm that gripped them. Soon, I feared, the storm would break.
It came on Holy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Easter. That morning I ate the stale, presanctified bread and listened to the priest read the gospel.
‘I don’t like Holy Week,’ Zoe declared. ‘Everything is pain and death.’ She had never been shy of speaking her mind, though her thoughts seemed more provocative now than they once had. I had learned to choose when to answer and when to ignore her; Helena, however, could not restrain herself.
‘Without the passion there is no resurrection. The sufferings of holy week are the foundations on which the church is built.’
I said nothing; I had my own reasons for disliking Holy Week. It was then, eighteen years ago, when the emperor Alexios had captured the imperial throne while his troops sacked the city where my wife and newborn daughter lived, and it had been Holy Week too when, sixteen years later, the Franks had tried to seize Constantinople. Instead of humility and love, this festival of exalted suffering seemed more likely to provoke violence and frenzy. I had seen too much of it.
‘What’s that?’
I looked where Helena was pointing. From the hill to the north, where Peter Bartholomew and the pilgrims had their colony, a long procession had emerged and was winding its way towards the main Provencal camp. There must have been thousands of them, and even at that distance I could hear the melody of the hymn they sang.
‘What does it mean?’ Zoe asked, tugging my sleeve. ‘What are they doing?’
‘I don’t know.’ It might have been nothing more than a rite for Holy Week, some Frankish custom we did not know, but I doubted it. Already, at the foot of the hill and in the valley, I could see knights and soldiers emerging from their tents to stare in surprise.
‘They look so solemn,’ said Helena. ‘More like an army marching to war than a host of pilgrims.’
She was right: rigid discipline gripped the pilgrim line, and they walked as if moved by a single, solemn purpose. A terrible foreboding rose in my heart; I shook off Zoe’s hand and broke into a run, threading my way first between the tents, and then through the thickening crowds who flocked towards the same place. Up on the mountain spur men abandoned their siege tools and descended to meet us, while others poured over the bridge from Duke Godfrey’s camp.
The pilgrim column reached the north side of the camp, where the valley floor began to rise, and halted. The crowd of knights and soldiers gathered around. Raised above all, on a rocky outcropping, stood Peter Bartholomew. He wore a long robe of pure white wool, with only a rope belt for adornment. His hair and beard had been washed, combed and tied straight with bands of cloth, and his sallow skin had been embalmed with oils and perfumes. Only his misshapen nose broke the picture of perfection, and betrayed the man he had once been.
He lifted his arms. The long sleeves of his gown hung down like wings.
‘Rejoice, my brothers. The Lord came to me last night in dreams. Our deliverance is at hand.’
The pilgrims erupted in cheers and jubilation, hosannas and amens. Many of the facing knights joined in, though at least half — mostly the men of Normandy and Lorraine — remained impassive.
‘Bring out the relic, the holy lance that pierced our Saviour’s side, so that I may swear the truth of my vision.’
Three priests brought the golden reliquary that contained the fragment of the holy lance. One knelt on the ground and held up the casket to Peter, who laid both hands on its lid. Waves of light rippled from the crystal and gold, bathing his face in celestial radiance. A sigh shivered through the crowd.
‘I swear by the holy lance. . No!’
He broke off, snatching his hands away as if they had been burned. The crowd gasped — could this be punishment for a false oath? — but before they could move Peter had unlatched the reliquary, thrown back the lid and plunged in his hand. He pulled it out and held it in the air, his fist clenched around something too small to see.
‘I swear
The crowd erupted in a turmoil of euphoria. The din must have carried all the way to the lofty walls of Arqa far above us on the mountain, perhaps even to heaven itself. No one could see the lance — it was only a fragment, after all, no longer than a nail — but no one doubted that he held it. Even I felt a trembling in my heart, as if by touching the relic Peter had plucked a string that resonated in all our souls.
The light on Peter’s face burned brighter than ever. Still holding his fist aloft, he turned to survey his congregation. Wherever he looked, the noise seemed to redouble.
‘The way of truth is a thorny path. Will you receive this vision? Will you hear the words the Lord spoke to me, and believe them?’
I thought I felt an edge to his words, a sharpness like the mouth of a trap. But my thoughts were drowned by the commotion around me, thousands of voices all crying out that they
Peter bowed his head. Behind him, for the first time, I noticed his lieutenant, the self-styled prophet John. I scanned his face for signs of what was to come, but could read nothing in it except pride.
‘I saw the Lord,’ Peter declared. ‘Last night, while I prayed.’
Several in the crowd shouted ‘Amen’, though the majority stayed still and silent, their heads lowered and their hands clasped before them, as if they could not trust themselves to let go. Many of the women swayed with eyes closed, transported by mystic rapture.
‘A black cross stood before me, its wood rough and ill fitted. I trembled to see it, but the Lord commanded me: “Look up on the cross you seek.”’
His far-seeing eyes stared up as if he could look through the vault of the sky all the way into heaven itself.
‘And suddenly, there upon the cross, I saw the Lord stretched out and crucified, just as in the gospel. He hung naked, save for a black and red linen cloth tied around his loins, bordered with bands of white, red and green. Saint Peter supported Him on the right, and Saint Andrew on the left.
‘Then the Lord spoke to me in a voice as deep as thunder. “Why do the Franks fear to die for me, as I died for them? I went to Jerusalem; I did not fear swords, lances, clubs, sticks or even the cross. Why do they fear to follow me?”
‘I had no answer to give.’ Peter’s voice was desolate; he stood stooped and hunched like an old man. ‘But the
