‘Good.’
Anna nestled back into me. Her long hair prickled against my nose and I shook my head to breathe freely again, unwilling to push her away even an inch. Warmth flowed between us – and with it, I fancied, some small measure of my cares.
‘What was it that struck you when you heard that the Norman’s servant had died?’ Anna asked at last. ‘I saw your eyes. You looked – guilty.’
I paused, trying to order my thoughts. ‘I saw the knight, Quino, the day before Simon died. At the tower. I accused him of worshipping a pagan idol. I suggested that it might have been he who killed Drogo.’
‘Did you think so?’
‘I don’t know. I have not considered it in many weeks; there has been too much else to distract me. But now three of Quino’s companions are dead. Even when Bohemond wanted their murderer found, Quino gave no help. And when I challenged him he threatened to kill me.’
‘The Saracen said the boy was killed by Turks.’
‘He said the boy was found on the river bank, pierced with arrows. Three nights ago the Turks were pent up in Antioch. Any raiding party on the far bank would have had to pass the watchtower by the fortified bridge, the guards by the boat bridge and the rest of our picket line. And even the Turks might struggle to hit a boy in the dark from across the river.’
‘But why would the knight . . . ?’
I remembered the snarl of Quino’s voice as we wrestled at the foot of the tower, the frenzy in his eyes. ‘It was the boy who told me that the knights had gone to Daphne, to the pagan cave. If Quino guessed that, what would he not have done to protect himself? The western princes do not bring heretics into their palaces to dispute theology with them, as the Emperor does. They burn them alive. And I – I revealed to Quino that I knew his secret. I gave him cause to suspect that the boy, Simon, had betrayed him. A day later Simon was dead.’
I rolled away, setting my back to Anna’s. Almost immediately, she turned over so that our positions were reversed, and her arms squeezed around me.
‘You must not think of it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Quino killed the boy, perhaps he did not. There are too many other concerns, more pressing, to trouble you now.’
‘No.’ I struggled free of her embrace as the images of a thousand slaughtered Turks clamoured in my mind. Whatever Mushid said, whatever blame the Franks held, it was my hand which had opened the gates of death to them. Against their deaths, Simon’s was nothing – a tear in a torrent. But their lives were beyond salvation now, while Simon’s I might still redeem.
The few inches between me and Anna yawned like a chasm, and the silence lasted so long that I thought she must have fallen asleep. At length, though, I felt the touch of her hand on my shoulder as she pulled me back towards her. I did not resist.
‘The baby will be three months old by now,’ said Anna. ‘I hope Helena has kept him healthy.’
I simply hoped that there was a baby to be healthy. We did not speak of the other possibility.
‘If you are worried, perhaps you should go back. It would be good for Helena to have a doctor and a mother to help.’ I spoke carefully, for any implication of weakness or cowardice would enrage Anna. ‘A starving, doomed city is no place for a woman.’
To my relief, she did not pull away from me. Nor was there any anger in her voice, only weary sadness. ‘It is too late for that. It would be suicide, trying to evade Kerbogha’s army. Sigurd says that in two days we shall not even be able to leave the walls.’
‘There are still ships at Saint Simeon,’ I urged her. ‘You could take passage to Cyprus, and thence to Constantinople. With the summer seas, it would be as safe a journey as any.’
For a long time she was still. From down in the city I could hear occasional shouted challenges from the Frankish patrols, sometimes the braying of animals. Otherwise Antioch seemed asleep. I doubted whether dreams would be any relief for its inhabitants.
‘No.’
‘It would be better—’ I began.
‘No. While I am here, I worry for Thomas and Helena, for Zoe and your grandchild, and for all who are dear to me. I fear for myself, and for what will become of me when Kerbogha comes. But if I left now, I would live every minute in fear for you. And that would be worse.’
I closed my eyes. A wave of warm confusion swept through me, threatening to spill out in tears. I kissed Anna on the nape of her neck.
‘You are a fool.’ My voice was shaking. ‘You should never have come, and then you should not have stayed.’
‘Neither should you. But we are both here now.’
? ?
Mushid had gone when I woke; he had slipped away just before dawn, the guard told me. He was probably wise to have done so, for the Frankish watchmen would have been most drowsy then – and we had nothing to offer him for breakfast. I longed for activity, for distraction from the cares that ravaged me like carrion-birds: I oiled my armour, polished my sword until I could have shaved in its reflection, worked the leather of my shield and even cut a new hole in my belt to fit my shrunken waist. After that, there was nothing to do save pace the walls and watch.
During the night, more Turks had come up on the far bank of the Orontes. It seemed that the Franks had at last learned patience, for they did not ride out to attack. Nor, though, could they avoid battle, for at first light the Turks renewed their assault on the tower by the fortified bridge. I could see it from where I watched, the wooden palisade raised on its mound and the banner of the Duke of Normandy hanging limp from a spear above it. The Normans had packed it with defenders, and for now seemed able to withstand the constant Turkish siege, but still it was merely the advance parties of Kerbogha’s vanguard whom they faced.
At noon Adhemar summoned us to another council. It was a relief to know that we were not forgotten, though I feared it was only the bishop – and perhaps Count Raymond – who cared anything for us. They brought us together in the great church of Saint Peter, where the customary four benches had been set in a square under the silver dome. After so many meetings in the confines of Adhemar’s tent or Raymond’s farmhouse it was strange to be placed in so cavernous a hall, where broad spaces stretched behind us and every word rebounded from the roof. The labourers had been cleared out for the council, but their work was far from finished: half-exposed icons stared out from splintered holes in the plaster; fragments of stone and rubble lay in heaps on the floor; and all was shrouded in dust.
Adhemar began by invoking the Lord. ‘The city is ours, praise God. By His right hand, and to His glory, we have conquered.’
‘By His grace, may we still hold its walls in a month,’ Bohemond added. He sat beside Adhemar, with the east end of the church and the high altar at his back. Count Raymond, whose place it was by custom, had been pushed further down the bench almost into the corner.
‘We have earned a mighty victory, for which we must be duly grateful. But it will be for nothing if we do not now hold Antioch against the new threat which rushes to overthrow us. We are the army of light, but a storm rages, and a single breath may extinguish us for ever. Only the hands of the Lord will cup us in safety,’ said Adhemar.
‘And sharp swords, and swift arrows.’ I had not seen Bohemond since the assault on the walls, but he did not seem to have enjoyed the fruits of his conquest in the intervening days. His dark hair was matted with dirt and sweat; the beard he had so carefully shaved before the battle was already sprouting back, unchecked; his eyes were sunk deep in dark pits. I guessed he had not slept since entering the city. The tunic he wore under his armour was stained yellow, while a grimy bandage bound his right forearm.
‘Already, my lords, you have seen Kerbogha’s vanguard attacking the outer forts. Now he looks to bring the
