The evil fortune that so many felt to have been predicted by the eclipse was not long in striking. A disobeyed order in the desolate, windswept hinterland of Turkey laid the great army open to attack; the Turks ambushed the crusaders in a narrow pass and slaughtered thousands. The shocked crusaders regrouped and made for the coast, where, after enduring terrible conditions, plague and near-starvation, those who were left finally took ship for the Holy Land.
The malign influence of the eclipse’s curse had not yet finished with them. Storms and tempests beat down on the fleet of ships, many of which foundered; some of those who landed safely had spent almost a month at sea, for the relatively short and normally calm crossing from Anatolia to Antioch.
Geoffroi, recovering in a hastily-erected hospital tent from the combined effects of diarrhoea (the drinking water on board had been foul), severe dehydration (it had run out three days before they reached Antioch) and a cut on the temple (someone had dropped a barrel on him as the ship tied up), felt that the ten-month journey from the north had aged him ten years. At the least.
He recovered swiftly, however. After little more than a week, he felt totally well again. Moreover, like the rest of the gallant remainder of the army that had set out so jubilantly and optimistically from Paris all those months and miles ago, he was eager to press on. So many had died — by enemy action, accident, of sickness, injury, plague, and by drowning — and so many had simply run out of food and money and given up. You could not, Geoffroi thought charitably, blame a man for his failure of courage; the circumstances had, far too often, been so frightful that it was surely amazing that more had not become disheartened and fallen by the wayside.
He went to give thanks to God that he had not been one of them. Praying, his eyes on the tormented figure on the cross that stood on the altar before him, his heart was filled with love and pity. His Redeemer had suffered far more than any of the crusaders, Geoffroi reflected; surely they could bear their own small echo of his pain, in this great enterprise to secure the Holy Places. ‘For Thee, dear Lord,’ Geoffroi murmured, ‘it is all for Thee.’
Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he prayed, with renewed fervour, that he be given the strength and the courage to do God’s will.
The next day, the army left Antioch and set out southwards for Jerusalem.
‘They say that the King and Queen are at odds again.’ The speaker was an English knight, rather older than Geoffroi; tall, broad in the shoulder and thickset, his rich auburn hair shone in the hot spring sunshine of Outremer. ‘Hardly to be wondered at, when she has been making eyes at her Uncle Raymond throughout these days we’ve been in Antioch.’
Geoffroi grinned. ‘They say, Herbert,’ he said. ‘Who have you been talking to? The washerwomen?’
Herbert of Lewes laughed. ‘It is not only washerwomen who gossip,’ he replied. Urging his horse closer, he dropped his voice and went on, ‘She tires of him, they say. No wonder she made moon-eyes at Raymond; even if he is her uncle, he’s strong and handsome, and a deal more virile, I’d guess, than your precious, pious Louis.’ Belatedly remembering that he was addressing one of Louis’s subjects, even if Geoffroi had become a friend, he added, ‘Piety is, naturally, greatly to be prized, and I-’
‘Enough, Herbert,’ Geoffroi said good-naturedly. ‘I have not taken offence, so there is no need to talk yourself into further difficulties.’
Apparently feeling himself forgiven, Herbert plunged on. ‘She was woken at midnight, you know. They burst into her chamber, shooed out her maids and bundled her up in a blanket! Carried her out to a covered litter and hurried her away before Raymond knew aught about it!’ Another rich chuckle. ‘No fond farewells there, you can be sure!’
They rode on, Herbert keeping up a steady flow of chatter, most of it increasingly wild speculation about King Louis and his Queen. They no longer shared a bed. She wanted to divorce him, claiming they were really cousins and should never have married in the first place. The King’s preference for prayer over the pleasures of his marriage bed meant he could now no longer satisfy any woman, and especially not the alluring, hot-blooded Queen Eleanor. She was going to run away, back to Antioch, marry Raymond and rule beside him.
Geoffroi, the hot sun on his back and the stark, dramatic countryside of the coastal strip unfolding vividly before his enchanted eyes, stopped listening.
Herbert was a good sort, he reflected, but, by the blessed Holy Mother, how he did go on! They had met when both were being treated following the terrible voyage from Anatolia. The meagre food supplies — dry, starchy stuff and little of it — and the lack of water had combined to make Herbert very constipated, and the poor man had been suffering dreadfully from piles. Side by side in the hospital tent, Geoffroi’s bowels turned to water and Herbert’s to stone, they had — eventually, when they began to recover — seen the funny side of it. With nothing to do all day but moan and talk to each other, they had become friends. Herbert had even done Geoffroi the great honour of telling him all about his family back home in England, including (and in particular) his favourite, his beautiful daughter Ida: ‘Hair the colour of autumn leaves, eyes like the midsummer sky, and a tiny little waist that you could encircle with your two hands’. Now, although they rode with different contingents, often they sought one another out.
‘. . it’s likely, they’re saying, that she’ll keep her head down now.’ Herbert, craning round to look into Geoffroi’s face, said accusingly, ‘You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said!’
‘Yes I have.’ Geoffroi gave a guilty start. ‘The Queen has eyes for her uncle and Louis no longer goes to her bed. And — er-’
Herbert gave him a friendly shove that almost unseated him. ‘Go on with you! I’ll warrant you were thinking of the fighting ahead, eh?’
‘No, I-’
But Herbert was not to be robbed of the picture he was forming, of an eager young knight ablaze with ardour for the coming battles. As he set off on another favourite tack — the glory of the fight for God’s Holy Places — Geoffroi went back to his calm contemplation of the scenery.
The march from Antioch to Jerusalem took over a month. As the army neared the Holy City, fatigue, illness, homesickness and injury were all forgotten as a sort of collective ecstasy overcame the crusaders. When, at long last, they finally had their first sight of the walls of Jerusalem, still far off but shining in the bright light like a beacon to welcome them, many were totally overcome.
We are so close now, Geoffroi thought as, with his comrades, he knelt in prayer that night. Although not entirely certain what action he would see — Jerusalem was safely in Frankish hands, it seemed, and there would surely be no call to fight there — he knew that he would go into battle, sooner or later. His fingers found and stroked the crusader’s cross sewn on to the shoulder of his tunic. Worn now, fraying a little at the edges despite his mother’s tiny, careful stitches, he would wear it, he knew, until the vow he had made as he received it was fulfilled.
He recalled the words that had been spoken on that unforgettable day. The crusaders, Bernard of Clairvaux had informed them, were uniquely fortunate in being given this opportunity for salvation. God was doing them the supreme favour of pretending to need their service to win back his Holy Kingdom whereas, in fact, his true motive was to allow the crusaders to fight for him so as to be able to bestow upon them remission of their sins and everlasting glory.