The Golden Horn (25 page)

“If you believe that of Alfred, my lord, nothing I say
will make any difference to you.”

“My lord!” someone called. “My lord
Baudouin!”

The Count paused for a long moment, eyes locked with Jehan’s.
The priest did not falter. Abruptly Baudouin turned on his heel. “Take
him with you,” he rapped over his shoulder to his brother, “and
mind you watch him. At the first false move, kill him.”

Jehan stood still, face to face with Henry. The young lord was
pale—with anger, Jehan realized. Even in battle he had never seen Henry
angry.

“Pay him no heed,” Henry said after a moment,
keeping his voice light with a visible effort. “He’s never in his
best humor before a fight.”

Jehan shook his head. “No, my lord. He’s right,
as far as he goes. It does look suspicious, Alf being where he is and what he is,
and now this sudden whim of mine. There’ll be no duel of honor fought
between us.”

Henry’s eyes upon him were dark with worry. “You
aren’t ill, are you?”

Jehan laughed aloud. “Ill? I? Never! Here, the sun’s
almost up and you’re hardly out of bed. Well; they said of Alexander that
he slept like a baby before a battle, and had to be shaken awake to get to the
field on time. That’s a reasonable precedent.”

“You’re well enough,” Henry said,
reassured. “But, Jehan, that vow of yours—”

“Is between myself and God, and you’ll not
trouble yourself with it. Now where’s your lazy lout of a squire? You don’t
even have your surcoat, let alone your sword. Did you even remember to bring
your helm?”

Henry laughed and let Jehan herd him into his squire’s
waiting arms. Even as he moved, the trumpets rang, rousing the fleet to battle.

o0o

It was the same long line, each of the forty great rounders mounted
with a tower. Yet in place of the singlefold assault that had failed so
dismally, the Doge had bound the ships together in pairs, two towered ships for
each tower of the City that defended the Golden Horn. Behind them on the
freshening wind sailed the lesser vessels, bristling with armed men.

The City awaited them with its full might. Every inch of
wall and tower seemed rimmed with steel, a wall of men above the walls of wood
and stone.

A lone arrow traced its arching path over the water to fall
spent on the deck of the foremost ship. There was a breathless pause. The Latin
archers fitted arrow to string and quarrel to crossbow.

As one, City and fleet let fly.

The City’s barrage was terrible, not arrows alone but
stones too great for a single man to lift. But Saint Mark’s mariners had
guarded against them with walls of timber woven with vines. The stones struck
with unerring aim, bounded back from the limber shields, and fell into the sea.

Steadily the ships advanced. Close under the walls, in a
hail of stones and arrows and a searing rain of Greek fire, they dropped
anchor. All the shore, like the walls above it, was black with men, that same
unyielding army which had driven the Franks already into the sea. They sang and
they shouted; their words would have made Jehan’s ears burn if he had
been a proper pious priest.

One after another the smaller ships beat toward the land.
Greek hands and spears thrust them back. Men leaped from them, waist-deep in
water. The Greeks surged to meet them.

Jehan kept to his ship. Henry had commanded it, holding his men
back with hand and voice and sheer force of will. Yet, command or no command,
and in spite of the vow he had sworn, Jehan yearned toward the struggle.

The Greeks fought like demons, yielding not an inch although
the sun crawled up the sky and the water reddened with blood. Latin blood, most
of it. The City was standing fast.

Again, thought Jehan. They were brave after all, those scheming
Byzantines.

The sun touched the zenith. Jehan squinted at it. A breeze fingered
his hair, freshening as he paused, blowing from the north. The ship bucked
underfoot and tugged at its anchor.

Shouts and cries drew his eyes to the wall. One of the great
ships lunged against its cable, the bridge swinging loose from its tower. To
the very end of it clung a small desperate figure.

It struck the edge of the wall. The single Latin clung for
his life, hands locked on the tower of the City, feet hooked through the
bridge. Greek steel flashed down upon him.

Again wind and water surged, thrusting bridge and tower together.
A second reckless warrior lunged across the narrowing space, over the hacked
and bleeding body of his fellow into the Varangian axes. But he, well armored,
sustained their blows and drew his sword. With a shrill yell he fell on the
defenders.

They fell back before him. Latins swarmed behind, binding bridge
to tower, overwhelming the Emperor’s forces. Full before his eyes they
did it as he sat his white stallion on the Hill of the All-seer, raging at the
craven weakness of his army.

The wind whipped attacker and defender alike and rocked the
great ships on their moorings. The bridge, fast bound to the tower, groaned
under the strain. The tower itself trembled; for it was Mourtzouphlos’
second and lesser rampart, built of timber on the solid stone of the wall.

Far below on the deck the captain bellowed upward, “Cast
off! Cast off, you fools! You’ll pull the damned thing down on us!”

The last of the Latins whirled about, hacking at the ropes with
their swords, while beneath their feet the tower swayed and groaned. With an
audible snap the last line parted. The ship swung free.

But the tower was won. The last Varangian fell at its foot; on
its summit the Franks raised a roar, brandishing their swords. “Holy
Sepulcher!” they cried. “Holy Sepulcher!” A banner caught the
wind above them, the proud blazon of their lord, the Bishop of Soissons.

o0o

“Trust a priest to take the first honors,” Henry
said, standing beside Jehan.

“The laymen are following,” Jehan said. “There!
Another’s fallen to us. Bracieux, that is, the old war hound. He never could
bear to be outfought.”

“Come to think of it,” mused Henry, “neither
can I.” His grin flashed around the circle of his knights. “Well,
sirs? Is it time?”

“Aye!” they shouted back.

“Then what are you waiting for? Over the side with
you!”

The wall of Greeks had broken under the tide from the West;
great gaps lay open within it. Through one such Henry plunged with his men
close behind and Jehan at his right hand.

The wall loomed above, poised surely to fall upon them. They
stumbled over dead and groaning wounded, advancing in close company.

Jehan thrust an elbow into Henry’s mailed ribs and set
his helm against the other’s. “Look. There. A gate!”

A postern, walled up but plainly visible. The company bolted
toward it, unlimbering bars and pickaxes. Quarrels rained down upon them, and
stones as huge as hogsheads, and a torrent of pitch searing all it touched.

“Shields!” Jehan roared. “Shield wall!”
He flung up his own; others jostled with it, overlapping, shielding the heads
of the men who tore at the wall.

It was dim under the laced shields, as clamorous as any smithy
Jehan had ever heard, reeking with sweat and pitch and the sulfur stink of
Greek fire. His arm rocked under the force of a falling stone; but he grinned
within his helm and braced his shield arm with the other to ease the strain.

Mortar flew under the blows of the pickaxes; stones loosened
and fell, pried out with daggers and even swords. Light stabbed through a
chink. The men pounced on it, tearing at the stubborn stone, widening the gap.

A young knight tore off his helm and thrust his head into
the opening, jerking it back with a cry. “Greeks! Bloody Greeks—thousands
of them!”

Jehan laughed, short and sharp. “You laymen! Can’t
you go anywhere without a priest to lead you?” He tossed down helm and
shield and shouldered through the press, bending to thrust himself into the
gap.

Henry cried out behind him. “You fool! They’ll
kill you!”

A pickaxe lay close to his hand. Its haft was warm still
from the hand of the man who had held it, a solid and satisfying weight. He
crawled forward with it into a rough-hewn shallow tunnel with a mass of yelling
faces beyond.

A strong hand seized his ankle; he kicked violently,
striking something that yielded and groaned in Henry’s voice. The fingers
snapped open. He scrambled forward, half falling into open air.

Stones hailed about him; Greeks closed in upon him. He roared
like a cornered lion and charged, brandishing the pickaxe like a club. The
Greeks shrieked and fled.

He stopped, breathing hard. No one menaced him. No one even
dared to face him.

“It’s clear!” he bellowed through the gap.
“All clear!”

Henry was the first to pull himself through with the others hard
upon his heels, spreading along the wall in a wary line. One had brought Jehan’s
shield; he settled it on his arm, letting the pickaxe fall.

Now, he thought, the enemy would come and sweep them all
away. Now, truly; for as he looked up, he gazed full upon the Emperor’s
hill rising before him, a long open slope, new green with spring. Near the
summit a great force gathered with the Emperor at its head. Trumpets rang the charge;
timbrels set its swift pace.

“Stand fast,” Henry said, low and clear. “For
your honor, my friends, stand fast.”

Each man set himself, feet braced, shield raised, sword at
the ready.

The Emperor charged.

The thin line held firm.

The white stallion slowed. The Greeks faltered.
Mourtzouphlos wheeled about; the trumpets sounded the retreat.

The Latins stared, stunned.

Henry struck his sword on his shield, rousing them with a shock.
“You—you—you. That gate yonder—open it. We’re going
to take the City!”

They tore apart the iron bars with swords and axes and flung
the great gates wide. The wind blew fresh and strong in their faces.

From the ships a shout went up. The sailors of Saint Mark drove
their vessels to the land. Men and horses poured forth through the gate into
Constantinople.

The Greeks had fled from a handful of men on foot within
their city. Knights in full panoply, mounted on the massive chargers of the
West, sent them flying in panic. The Emperor himself was swept into the tide of
terror and borne away.

o0o

The sun hung low over the walls and turrets of the City,
casting long shadows on the streets. In a great square under the cold eyes of
old gods and emperors, the Latin army gathered. Weary though they were,
spattered with blood, many limping with wounds, they counted scarce a handful
of dead. All the blood was Greek blood.

Jehan sat his stallion in grim silence. No Frank within his reach
had slain any but the Emperor’s soldiers, but his reach was no longer
than one man’s could be. He had done little good. By far the greatest number
of slain were unarmed citizens, old men, women and children.

The Latins drew together now, as the heat of their blood
cooled and it sank in upon them that they had dared in their small numbers to
violate the greatest of all cities. All about them the labyrinth of streets and
passages glittered with hostile eyes. Surely at any moment the enemy would
surround them and hew them down.

Their lords gathered in the center of the square,
dismounting stiffly, greeting one another with weary courtesy. The Doge stood
in the midst of them, erect and in full armor, with his sword in his hand.

Jehan nudged his stallion closer to halt beside Henry’s
bay, exchanging a glance of recognition with the squire who held the bridle.

“We have won,” the Doge said in his strong old
voice, “for the moment. All this quarter of the City is ours. But the
rest holds still against us.”

“God save us all,” muttered one of the barons,
crossing himself. “We’ll have to fight for every alley. It will
take us a month at least of hard work before we can claim the victory.”

Count Baudouin spoke clearly and sharply. “What use to
count the hours? We hold what we hold. I for one will not let go one inch of
it.”

“Commendable,” said Marquis Boniface, “and
better certainly than despair. But we can fight no more tonight.”

The Doge sheathed his sword with a firm practiced motion. “No;
we cannot press the battle further before morning. Let us mount guards within
the City to keep watch against attack. The bulk of the army shall camp by the
sea walls to keep open the path of escape. And mark me well, my lords: Let no
man of guard or army stray out of the sight of his fellows. Cowards the Greeks
may be in open battle, but in the dark and on their own ground, they are
deadly.”

“Born thieves and cutthroats.” Baudouin turned
toward the hill which the Emperor had abandoned, where the tents glowed crimson
in the sunset, glinting with gold. “There,” he said, “I shall
mount my guard.”

Marquis Boniface fixed him with a hard stare. “I shall
make my camp on the Middle Way, as near to the Forum of the Bull as I may go.
For,” he said, “one man at least should guard against the greatest
massing of the enemy.”

Baudouin smiled. “My valiant lord. I’ll think of
you when I lie in the Emperor’s bed.”

“Which,” said Boniface, “is also a coward’s.”

Henry stepped swiftly between them, catching Baudouin’s
hand as it fell to his sword hilt. “My lords! Haven’t you exchanged
blows enough with the enemy that you have to turn on each other?” Under
his steady brown eye they subsided, glaring at one another but saying no word.
Henry smiled and bowed to them, and again to the Doge. “I, for my part,
am minded to keep watch over the servants and eunuchs barricaded in Blachernae.
If my lords will agree to it?”

They all nodded assent. “Go,” said the Doge, “do
as you will. In the morning we shall renew the battle.”

Henry took his charger’s bridle from the squire’s
hand, flashing a smile to Jehan, and swung lightly astride. “Until
morning, my lords. God be with you.”