‘I’m not sure, but I suspect they’re both much more interested in living the life of a warrior — and emulating a certain Hereward of Bourne — than in having children.’
Robert asked the Brethren to gather in his tent one night after supper — which consisted of a few pieces of dried goat’s meat and one swig of wine that the heat had turned to vinegar — in order to discuss the dilemma. He had been doing some arithmetic.
‘We are dying in droves. By the time we cross Anatolia our numbers will have halved, our horses will be all but gone, and there will be no pack animals left to pull our baggage train.’
Hereward offered the wisdom of his years of service in conditions such as the ones we were now facing.
‘Qilich Arslan is your biggest enemy, not this godforsaken place. He is making you pay for Nicaea and Dorylaeum by laying waste to everything in your path. But he could also be your salvation. He must still be close by, waiting until you are weak enough for him to strike again.’
‘You make our prospects sound worse, not better.’
Sweyn suddenly got to his feet.
‘But he’s got what we need.’
Hereward looked elated; Sweyn had understood his intention.
Robert was still unsure.
‘And?’
‘We take it from him.’
‘How?’
‘A small force attacks as a diversion.’
Adela was quick to see the possibilities.
‘An even smaller force spirits away his baggage train, horses, goats and whatever else we can plunder.’
‘Exactly.’
There were smiles all round as spirits lifted for the first time in several weeks.
Robert then threw in some words of caution.
‘Everyone is in a bad way. We have to be careful; if the others hear that food and water and horses are just over the next hill, there will be a mass exodus within the hour. The Crusade will be over.’
Hereward suggested a plan.
‘For obvious reasons, Robert must stay with the army to continue his duties. Estrith will stay with the sick and wounded. The attacking feint should be undertaken by the English contingent, led by Edgar and Edwin. I will pick a hundred or so of Tacitius’s Byzantines — he can be trusted, and I know his men — and Sweyn and Adela will lead them to capture Sultan Arslan’s baggage train from under his nose.’
‘And what will you do?’ asked Adela.
‘I’ll be right behind you two, keeping an eye on you. But first, we have to find Arslan. At first light tomorrow, Adela, Sweyn and I will slip out of camp with a dozen or so Byzantines who know this land and go in search of a Seljuk sultan.’
Three days later, the hunting party returned.
At what I suspected was Hereward’s prompting, Sweyn gave the news and repeated the detail of the feint.
‘Arslan is about thirty miles away to the north-east. It looks like he’s poised to strike. Men are arriving from the east all the time. Edgar, when can you be ready to leave?’
‘This evening, under cover of darkness; we don’t want to alert too many curious eyes. I’ll tell Robert. Estrith, will you carry on with your duties with the sick?’
‘No, where my family goes, I go. Besides, I don’t want to have to answer all the questions in the morning about where the English have gone!’
Robert gave us as many of the skinny Arabic horses and surviving pack animals as he could spare to carry away our ill-gotten gains. He also granted us extra rations of food and water and provender for the animals.
By dawn the next morning, our small band had made excellent progress.
We found some shade and rested during the day, before travelling again at night. Nobody slept much in the heat of the day, but it was a time for reflection. Sweyn did most of the talking, usually in the form of questions and always aimed at Hereward.
‘How long did it take you to overcome the fear of battle?’
‘I never did, it is always there. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either a liar or a fool.’
‘But it must get easier to deal with?’
‘In a way, but the fear doesn’t go away, you just learn how to turn it to your advantage. Do you fear what we are about to do?’
‘Yes, I do, but I would only confess it to the Brethren.’
‘It’s a wise man who admits to his fears and anxieties — and also a strong one. Your fear will keep you alert and, when the time comes, you will turn it into the strength you need to do what you have to do.’
Edwin and I sat and watched as the great man bestowed his wisdom. Estrith was coiled around him in a loving embrace, while Sweyn and Adela sat at his feet, hanging on every word.
It brought back some fond memories from England, as well as many sad ones.
We launched our attack on Qilich Arslan’s camp in the dead of night.
After locating the baggage train and leaving Sweyn and Adela’s team in position, we attacked from the opposite side; fortunately, it was the dark of the moon. A group of junior knights found a hidden position in a dry river bed. They acted as a platoon of archers and loosed a storm of fire arrows into the black night. There was soon chaos as the fires took hold and thick smoke swirled around. We then rode through the Seljuk camp, making the kind of commotion worthy of several thousand horsemen rather than several dozen.
All in all, we made three sorties through the camp before the Turks got themselves organized sufficiently to inflict on us increasing numbers of casualties. We then withdrew and took up positions that would enable us to cover the escape of our bounty hunters.
Sweyn and Adela’s party worked by stealth; their mode was the way of the silent assassin. Sentries were attacked from behind, their throats cut by an English seax or the life strangled out of them by a Byzantine garrotte, picket lines were cut, corralled animals let loose, and our strings of horses loaded with as much food and water as they could carry.
Then, on Adela’s signal — a single fire-arrow shot horizontally into the air — Sweyn led his band away into the night, first at a trot, in the hope of not giving away their direction of escape, then at a canter, and finally at full gallop. I split my English group into three; we each let off several volleys of covering arrows before riding off as loudly as we could in different directions to confuse the Seljuks as much as possible.
Our agreed rendezvous point was the site of our last camp. We reached it as dawn was breaking and, with it, the warm light of day brought a wonderful sight. There were dozens of swift Steppes ponies laden with all sorts of provisions — not enough to feed an army for long, but sufficient to gladden the hearts of our demoralized companions for many days.
We knew Qilich Arslan’s cavalry would be fanning out all around us, so we did a head count and moved off at speed. We had lost more than a dozen noble Englishmen, who had sacrificed their lives for their fellow Crusaders. It was yet another paradox to ponder: the vast majority of the Crusaders were Normans or Franks — the very same people who had conquered their English homeland and ruled it so ruthlessly — but such was the Crusader ideal, they had given of themselves willingly.
One of them was Algar, a righteous 31-year-old son of a thegn who had fought and died at Senlac Ridge, who slumbered in his mother’s womb at the time. Another was Storolf of Nottingham, a daunting man in his fifties, who had been with the Mercians who ambushed the Normans at the Malfosse on the night of the Battle of Senlac Ridge. He then joined King Harold’s exiled sons in Ireland but was disillusioned by their capricious behaviour and became a soldier for hire, wherever he could get paid. When he heard of the English contingent to the Holy Land, he joined in the hope that it would cleanse him of the sins of a lifetime of killing by day and debauchery by night.
We estimated that we were about three hours away from the Crusader column when a large group of Seljuks, perhaps 200 of them, crested the hill behind us.
Sweyn immediately swung his mount round and bellowed an order to the captain of Tacitius’s Byzantines.
‘Captain, take half the men and take our bounty on to the column. Everyone else, dismount.’
