Knights of the Cross

‘Dead?’ Spit drooled out of the side of his mouth.

‘You have heard of Drogo of Melfi? Or Rainauld of Albigeois?’

‘I know of the knight Rainauld. He was a Provencal, as I am.’

‘Then you know what befell him, how his broken body was found ravaged in a culvert.’ I pulled out my knife and laid the flat of the blade against his neck. He shivered at the touch of the cold iron. ‘You would not wish to suffer the same fate.’

The pilgrim’s ugly face creased into sobs. ‘Have mercy,’ he wailed. ‘I came here for healing, and now I will be murdered. Have mercy on Your servant, Lord. Deliver me from my enemies, from the workers of bloody iniquity who set snares for my soul. O Lord my shield, God of mercy, You alone are my defence and my refuge, have mercy —’

‘Silence,’ I snapped. ‘Do not pretend to invoke His name, lest hearing you He visits still more afflictions upon you. Why did you have the cross carved?’

‘To show my piety.’

‘To whom?’

‘To the Lord God.’

I slapped my knife against the raw skin of the boil that Anna had lanced, and he screamed. ‘When two or three men bear exactly the same mark, I think it is more than personal piety that moves them. You were part of some secret order or brotherhood, were you not, and this was your sign?’

‘Yes,’ shrieked Bartholomew. ‘It is true – there was a brotherhood. You could not understand it for it was a fellowship of purity, of sanctity.’

‘A fellowship of purity?’ I repeated. ‘Why should that have been kept a secret?’

‘Because the Devil has many spies lurking to snatch us. Because the Army of God has become corrupted. Our leaders have forgotten Christ and are fallen prey to selfish greed; our camp festers with vice and blasphemy. Why else has God deserted us before this city? Voices cry out to them to straighten their ways, but they suppress us. That is why we meet in secret and hide the marks of our faith, lest the ravening wolves of Satan consume us.’

‘And Drogo and Rainauld were adepts of this group?’ I did not know whether to trust him, but there was a terrified force in his words that betold their truth.

‘I cannot say.’

‘You will say.’ I tapped him with my knife again, though this time on unbroken skin.

‘I cannot. We are sworn to secrecy – and even if I have betrayed that, I cannot betray my companions. I do not know their names.’

‘You must have seen some whom you recognised.’

‘My eyes were only focused on God.’ Having revealed his secret and survived, Bartholomew seemed to be finding new strength.

‘How did you discover the group, if you knew no one in it?’

‘My friend – who is dead – brought the priest to speak with me. She spoke with me for many hours, opening my eyes to truth and repentance. Afterwards—’

So confused were my thoughts that it took a full sentence for me to hear the meaning of his words. ‘She?’ I exploded, spinning him round so that he stared up at me. ‘The priest was a woman? What sort of heresy was this?’

‘No heresy but the truth of Christ. Consider the Holy Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus – she was a woman made a vessel of God’s purpose. Why not another? Sarah lived—’

‘Sarah? Her name was Sarah?’ I felt like a man flailing on the edge of a cliff, snatching at branches not knowing if they would snap or hold. ‘She was a Provencal?’

Bartholomew shook his head, plainly terrified by my frenzy. ‘She was not a Provencal. I thought she was a Greek, though she did not speak of it. Her name was Sarah.’

‘Demetrios!’

The sound of my name spun me around in redoubled confusion. Stooped under the tent flaps, a Patzinak behind him, Sigurd was watching me. His face was grim.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Tatikios has summoned us.’

‘Tatikios can wait,’ I insisted. ‘My business is urgent.’

‘You must come. He has decided to leave Antioch.’

Sigurd led me at a run to Tatikios’ tent, saying nothing. My fears redoubled when I saw a band of Norman knights gathered in front of it, but they did not hinder us. Tatikios’ guards were nowhere to be seen.

I had always thought the interior to be spacious, but it seemed crowded as we entered now. Four more Normans were standing near the door, three of them in armour and one in chains between them. They formed an immovable mass of iron, about which Tatikios’ slaves scurried in haste, bearing bundles of cloth and arms. The rich partitioning curtain had been ripped from its hangings, and the icon of the three warrior saints had vanished from its stand. In the centre, standing by his silvered chair, stood a highly agitated Tatikios.

‘Demetrios. You have come at last.’ He twisted his hands together, made as if to step forward, then slumped into the chair instead.

‘You are leaving, Lord?’ I asked in confusion.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘The better to bring this siege to a close. And for my own safety.’

‘Your safety is assured while the Varangians serve you.’ Sigurd stepped forward, his axe prominent in his hands. ‘A brutish gang of Normans will not trouble you.’

‘On the contrary.’ Tatikios’ voice had jumped high as a girl’s. ‘It is they—’

‘It is we who have saved him.’ The moment the leading Norman spoke, all attention switched to him, to the strength of command in his voice. With his head hidden under a helmet and his back to me, I had not recognised him, though size alone should have warned me. As he turned to face me, he revealed the red-and-white mottled skin, the russet beard and dark hair squeezed beneath the dome of his helmet, the eyes as pale as a winter sky.

‘I owe my life to the Lord Bohemond,’ Tatikios protested. Absent-mindedly, he scratched the side of his golden nose as if it itched.

‘How?’

‘We have discovered a plot,’ said Bohemond. ‘A base conspiracy among those who hate the Emperor.’

‘They planned to murder me,’ Tatikios squeaked. ‘Me – the Grand Primikerios, plenipotentiary of the Emperor himself. Can you conceive it?’

‘Wickedness indeed,’ said Sigurd inscrutably.

‘Why should they do that?’ I asked. ‘What would they gain?’

Bohemond turned to the man in chains behind him, secured between the two knights. ‘Well, worm? What did you hope to gain by your treachery?’

‘Mercy, Lord.’ Long hair covered the prisoner’s sagging face so I could not see him; he moaned as Bohemond aimed a kick at his knee. ‘Have mercy on me.’

‘Confess yourself.’

‘I planned to steal into the eunuch’s tent late at night and stab him in the heart. I despise the Greeks. Their presence in our army draws the Lord’s wrath. They promised to feed us, and we are hungry. They promised gold, and we are poor. They promised to fight, but they sit comfortably in their palaces. Now, at their Emperor’s command, they pay the Turks to assail us in secret, that we might be destroyed.’ His voice, which had been curiously unpassioned, now began to rise. ‘Only when their filth is driven from our camp will the Lord favour us with victory. Only—’

‘Enough.’ Bohemond slapped his hand across the man’s cheek. The prisoner subsided into silence. ‘You see, my Lord Tatikios, the ignorance of some of my followers. I crave your forgiveness, but too many in my army do not love the Greeks. Their charges are lies and slanders, but however often I deny them they are believed.’

‘How did you discover this plot?’ I asked.

Bohemond did not even look at me to answer. ‘One of his companions betrayed him.’