Siege of Heaven (25 page)

Nikephoros eyed our surroundings dismissively. ‘Is the duke of Lorraine such a pauper?’

It was fortunate he had spoken in Greek, for at that moment one of the curtains swung back and Duke Godfrey strode into the room. I stared at him, unable to
hide my hatred despite Nikephoros’ warning. He had not changed much: the weatherbeaten face that seemed set in a permanent look of disapproval, the stocky shoulders more like a ploughman’s than a duke’s, the pale blue eyes. I tried to imagine him standing over the captives at Ravendan, watching his henchmen burn out their sight, but though the memory was sharp the details were clouded.

He looked at Nikephoros. ‘Welcome,’ he said courteously. He closed the book on the stand and covered it with a cloth. ‘I had not expected I would host an ambassador of your rank on this frozen evening, or I would have made preparations. As it is, all I can offer you are the spartan comforts that I require myself.’

Evidently the attendant who announced our arrival had not troubled to mention my presence – why would he? – and Godfrey’s noble gaze was well-practised at ignoring servants in the background. Only as I started speaking, translating his greeting, did his eyes flick across to notice me. I was ready for him: though my voice never wavered, I held his gaze and watched with savage delight as recognition bit. Even he, schooled in the wiles of courtly intrigue as he was, could not hide his shock. Just for a second, the mask slipped: colour drained from his face and his eyes widened in panic. By the time I finished relaying his welcome he had collected himself.

Nikephoros, standing in front of me, could not see my expression. ‘Tell him I am grateful he has received me so late and unannounced.’

I repeated it in the Frankish dialect. ‘No doubt you did not expect to see us.’

‘You had been gone so long I feared you might be dead.’

‘As you see, I survived.’

Two servants moved the brazier to the centre of the room, bringing chairs for Nikephoros and Godfrey and a wooden stool for me. Though outwardly calm, I could see the uncertainty in Godfrey’s eyes as they darted between me and Nikephoros, gauging who was the greater threat. He had never seen me at the monastery, I realised; he did not know how much I knew or guessed of his role, and it troubled him. There at least I had the advantage.

He offered Nikephoros a taut, insincere smile. ‘What brings the ambassador of Byzantium to my tent on this bleak night?’

‘The same thing that has brought all the princes to this forsaken town.’

‘The council?’ He laughed. ‘If you have come to persuade me to side with Count Raymond, you could have saved yourself a cold journey. I am not interested in who rules Antioch.’

‘You swore an oath to return the emperor his lands.’

Godfrey’s face soured at the memory. He had spent months trying to escape having to make that oath, and had only relented at the point of a sword. I wondered if his theft of the emperor’s ring was somehow meant to revenge that defeat. ‘Bohemond swore the same. If he has not honoured his word, it is a matter for his soul and conscience. Not mine.’

‘Of course,’ said Nikephoros calmly. ‘The question of Antioch is a side issue – a distraction. As you say, it does not concern you.’

‘No.’

‘It concerns Count Raymond and Bohemond. But while they wrestle together, each trying to choke the other, we are all sinking into the mire.’

‘Did you come all this way on a winter’s night to tell me that?’

‘Antioch is not worth losing this war for. Already, while you wasted the summer and autumn, the Fatimid vizier marched on Jerusalem and took it. He has already had six months to repair its defences and stuff it full of his men. If we wait another six months he will have made it impregnable.’

Godfrey leaned forward and stirred the coals with a poker, tapping it against the brazier’s edge to clear the ash. I tensed, memories of Tancred and the blinding iron rushing back to me, then wondered if Godfrey had deliberately done it to provoke me. I glanced at him, but his expression betrayed nothing.

‘Six months or six years or six thousand years: it does not matter. The caliph cannot make Jerusalem impregnable. Jerusalem is the city of the living God. He will deliver it to us in His own time.’

‘Only if we reach it.’

‘We will reach it,’ said Godfrey stubbornly. He paused. ‘Do you know the emperor Charlemagne?’ He must have seen me perplexed by the barbarian name, for he added:
‘The emperor Charles the Great. I know the Greeks did not recognise that title, but he was emperor of the west long after you had surrendered your right to it. He was my ancestor.’

With a solemn face, he stretched out his hand palm down. On his fourth finger, a black stone bulged from the heavy ring he wore, its gold scratched to an ancient dullness. Once again, I wondered if he was testing me by provoking memories of another ring. ‘This was Charlemagne’s ring.’

Nikephoros bowed his head in respect. ‘I knew your own reputation, Duke Godfrey – long before I met you – but I admit I did not know your ancestry.’

Godfrey gave a smug smile. ‘That was centuries ago. After his death there was not a man alive who possessed even half as much authority or ability. The empire he had ruled alone he divided between his three sons, who divided it among themselves and among their heirs until all that remained was my own duchy of Lorraine. But that is history. While he lived, the emperor Charlemagne made a pilgrimage of his own to Jerusalem. That is where he took the banner of the five wounds, which you saw outside. And that,’ he concluded, ‘is why you do not need to question my passion to see Jerusalem. I will never rule over the empire of my ancestors. I would not wish it and I doubt I could manage it. The world was smaller then, or the men bigger. But in this small thing at least I can follow his example, and honour his memory.’

Godfrey leaned forward on his stool, his eyes half closed, perhaps imagining the great exploits of his ancestor. Nikephoros pressed his fingers together.

‘My master the emperor never doubted your zeal – or your faith. Indeed, he relied on you to carry this campaign forward when he knew other men would falter. Which is why – ’

Godfrey held up a hand. Lamplight gleamed where it caught the band of his ring. ‘When I go to Jerusalem, it will be of my own will and desire, not under duress from any man – Norman, Provençal or Greek.’

‘What of the unity of the Army of God?’

‘What of the unity of the Army of God? If there was such a thing, you would not be here now. When there is, I will happily follow the army where it chooses to go. But I will not drop to my knees and beg. When God ordains the time they will do what He requires.’

His tone was measured and his words precise, but there was no mistaking the unbending pride behind them. He rose; Nikephoros and I followed.

‘Thank you for coming to speak with me,’ Godfrey said, with the same efficient courtesy he had shown when we arrived. ‘If we all spoke more often together, things would go better with us.’

‘Then I will hope tomorrow brings accord.’

Nikephoros bowed again, and was about to go when Godfrey said, ‘You said you were in Egypt, at the caliph’s court. Did you hear any word of my liege-man, Achard of
Tournai? He travelled there nine months ago as part of our embassy, but I have heard nothing from him since the summer.’

Nikephoros halted in surprise, then crossed himself. ‘While we were in Egypt, the caliph turned against all Christians at his court and tried to kill us. A few of us escaped; Achard did not. He drowned in the Nile while we fought the caliph’s guards.’

Godfrey lowered his eyes. ‘
By the waters of Babylon I lay down and wept
. It was a risk he took, but I will mourn his loss. He was a good man and a zealous servant.’

‘He fought bravely to the end.’ Nikephoros, so practised in the nice phrases and smooth lies of diplomacy, sounded unexpectedly false when discussing a man’s death.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

Godfrey inclined his head to dismiss us and we retreated from the tent. We had not gone six paces when a servant scuttled out and called, ‘You have forgotten your cloak, Demetrios Askiates.’

I touched a hand to my shoulders, feeling the thick wool of my cloak clasped where it should be. Nikephoros raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

‘I had better fetch it.’

Every muscle in my body tensed as I stepped back into Godfrey’s chamber. He would not harm me with Nikephoros waiting outside and half the Frankish army camped nearby, I told myself. I still could not keep from shivering as I saw him standing over the brazier, stirring
the coals. How many hours had I spent during our captivity in Egypt brooding over his treachery and pondering my revenge? Yet now that I stood face to face with him, alone, I could not touch him.

‘Did I forget my cloak?’ I asked.

‘You were supposed to be dead.’

‘By God’s mercy, we escaped the Egyptians.’

‘I was not talking of the Egyptians.’ He raked me with a long, searching look. ‘I do not know how you survived, or what you learned, but if you say one word against me I will make you wish you had died in the fires at Ravendan.’

I kept silent, fixing him with a stare of plain hatred.

‘You do not want to make an enemy of me,’ he warned.

‘I never did.’

He banged the poker against the rim of the brazier. It rang with a mournful, hollow clang. ‘You had something that I needed. Now that I have it, there is no reason for us to be enemies.’ He jabbed the poker towards me and I flinched. ‘Go home, Demetrios Askiates. Go home to your family. Leave behind these things that do not concern you. No good will come of it if you stay here.’

He nodded his head to dismiss me and I went. My last sight was of him pacing around the room, pinching out the candles with his fingers.

The princes met next morning. It was the last time they would all sit together under the same roof, though none of us knew it. Afterwards, we might look back and see the signs of what was to come, but on that dazzling morning there seemed genuine grounds for hope. The storm had passed: the morning sun shone gold on the dappled snow drifts, and pearls of ice hung from the trees like berries.

One by one, the Franks made their way to the centre of the village, striding through the knee-deep snow. They had been forbidden from carrying arms to the council, but they compensated by bringing hordes of their knights, who stood in small knots around the village square and glared at their rivals.

‘They should have allowed the princes their swords and
forbidden them their followers,’ said Aelfric. ‘Then we would have been safer.’

‘At least if it comes to a fight they’ll have nothing more dangerous than snowballs.’

The bright morning did not last long. Clouds came up, chilling our spirits, and soldiers’ boots soon ground the snow to a grey-brown gruel. Still we waited, all eyes watching the western road. Bohemond had not come. The princes clustered around the edges of the square, huddled with their men as they wondered what it signified. Only Raymond, standing outside the church doors flanked by his guards, did not seem troubled by the absence of his rival.

After half an hour, Raymond walked to the centre of the square and called the princes forward. I accompanied Nikephoros to translate for him; the others came alone. All were wrapped in vast thicknesses of bristling furs, swelling them to twice their actual size, and they sniffed at each other like a pack of wolves in the snow.

‘Where is Bohemond?’ said the Duke of Normandy. He was a stout man who had been prominent by his absence during most of the hard campaigning. Now his face was creased with worry.

‘What does it matter?’ Raymond’s single eye swept around the gathering. ‘I am too old to be kept waiting in the cold by a Norman whelp.’

‘Without Bohemond there is nothing to discuss.’

Raymond’s face flushed an angry red under his irongrey beard. ‘Are we beholden to one man? Are we children
without Bohemond’s hand to guide us? Bishop Adhemar, rest his soul, used to preach that the only commander of the Army of God is God Himself. I do not think that includes Bohemond – unless he has added divinity to his self-appointed honours.’

Several of the princes looked uneasy at the impiety of this suggestion. Tancred merely laughed, and murmured audibly, ‘I would not put it past my uncle.’

His comment drew a disapproving stare from Duke Godfrey, and surprised looks from the others. Unabashed, Tancred continued, ‘I agree with Count Raymond. If my uncle wishes to come then he will be here. He would not want us to delay on his account: he knows our cause is greater than any single man.’ A smile curled at the edge of his lips. ‘Even him.’

‘Then it is decided.’ Raymond turned and strode towards the church without looking back. The others hesitated, glancing at each other in indecision. No one made to follow Raymond until he was more than halfway across the square, a proud and lonely figure in the dirty snow. Then, like a gaggle of unruly children, they made their way into the church.

Once, during the great trials at Antioch, the princes’ councils had been commonplace affairs, consumed with questions of detail and the care of the army. In those desperate times a short prayer from Bishop Adhemar had sufficed to consecrate the occasion, and the only men in attendance had been the princes and their closest aides. Now,
a bishop led a full mass in Latin while all the princes’ followers crowded into the church. When the service was over, a space was cleared in the middle of the church and the crowd penned back by four benches set in a square. In its centre, on a marble pedestal, sat the golden reliquary which held the fragment of the holy lance. I noticed many of the princes refused to look at it as they seated themselves, fidgeting under the eyes of the crowd and staring at the empty space where Bohemond should have been. I took my place behind Nikephoros, and thereafter whispered all that was said in his ear.