Geoffroi was not at all sure he had understood that line of reasoning at the time. He was even less sure now. But he told himself it didn’t matter; God had called, he had answered, and now here he was, prepared to do whatever he was told, prepared to give his very life, if it were to be called for, to win back God’s earthly realm. The fact that this supreme act of penance would, or so they promised, absolve him from all his sins — both those he was aware of committing and those he wasn’t — was a sort of ongoing, perpetual reassurance. A comfort. No, he thought, struggling to put his profound emotion into words, more than that. A-
But at that moment the officiating priest raised his voice and literally cried out to heaven, and Geoffroi, swept along on the huge tide of emotion, had no more time for private thoughts.
After that night there was a long period of inactivity. The sense of anticlimax was great; as Herbert remarked, they had come all that way and suffered so much to see Jerusalem at last, only to find themselves camped in a field with nothing to occupy them, kicking their heels while endless councils and conferences decided what to do next.
There was discord among the leaders of the crusade, that much was well known. Queen Eleanor’s Uncle Raymond had declared he wanted no further part in the proceedings, which, Herbert observed, was hardly surprising, all things considered. And the Count of Tripoli, ‘so they said’, had been accused of trying to poison a fellow count and had gone off in a huff.
‘You see, your King Louis,’ Herbert pontificated, ‘devout and pious soul that he is — and he is, we all know that! — isn’t what you might call a political man. Is he, now?’ Geoffroi, to whom these remarks were addressed, agreed that no, he wasn’t.
‘See,’ Herbert went on, ‘there’s so much happening under the surface, as you might say, that a straight-thinking, simple-minded, God-fearing man like Louis just doesn’t comprehend. Which is all to his credit!’ he added hurriedly, in case Geoffroi might be taking offence. ‘See, there’s so much intrigue and political manoeuvring going on and, besides, many of our precious leaders seem more interested in what they’re going to get out of the whole business than what they may or may not be called upon to do for God. And — listen to this! — some of these Outremer Franks, these very people whose appeal for help we’ve come all this way to answer, don’t seem to want us here! We’re interfering, so they say, and poking our noses in where we’re not wanted.’ Indignation soared through him and he said furiously, ‘Imagine that!’
‘What are we going to do?’ Geoffroi asked.
‘Do?’ Herbert repeated. Then, with a shrug, ‘I don’t know, lad. Wait for our orders, same as always, and then obey them.’
The orders, when at last they came, seemed at first incomprehensible. The vast crusading army, which had come so far at such great cost, was to attack Damascus.
‘But I thought Damascus was a friend, not a foe!’ Geoffroi said when the ever-reliable Herbert brought the news.
‘Friend or foe, that’s what we’re to do,’ Herbert repeated. Then he fell into an uncharacteristic silence.
‘But you don’t make war on your allies, not-’ Geoffroi began, eventually frightened into making some comment.
Herbert glowered at him. ‘Not for us to question our orders, lad,’ he said starkly. Then, relenting slightly, ‘I reckon it’s those Templars that are behind this. They’ve been in secret conference with the Emperor Conrad, or so I’ve heard, and this — this assault on Damascus — is the result. It’ll be strategy, you mark my words. Strategy.’ The last word was almost spat out.
Geoffroi, not understanding, hoping for the best and praying for the courage to face what he must face, had no answer.
The next day, they marched off to attack the Turkish emirate of Damascus.
7
The short-lived and ill-conceived assault on Damascus was a fiasco.
Not that Geoffroi and his fellow knights could know that as, in late July, they approached the city and prepared for battle. Taking communion that morning, after humbly confessing his sins, Geoffroi had prayed for the success of the engagement.
Then, in an action which swiftly turned from an ordered attack into a rout, he rode into battle.
Beside the crusading army rode contingents of Frankish settlers but, even with this welcome addition to their numbers, the task seemed daunting. Unable to gain entry to the fiercely defended city, the army laid siege.
Stalemate.
Rumours began to circulate.
Someone within the city — maybe even the Emir — had bribed the Jerusalem lords to give up and retreat. Reinforcements had been sent for, and a vast Muslim army was even now heading for Damascus, intent on slaughtering every Christian they laid hands on. Nureddin himself was on his way, his fanatical eyes alight at the thought of heaps of Christian dead. The Frankish settlers were planning to abandon their newly arrived comrades and, even worse, turn them over to the Turks. Or the Muslims. Or both.
Morale plummeted.
On the fourth day, the siege was lifted and the Christian army was ordered to retreat.
Then all hell broke loose.
Fighting for his life, with no clear idea of what his orders were or, even, of what was the most sensible thing to do, Geoffroi copied his fellow knights and battled his way out through the surging throng of the enemy. Whether the swarthy, dark men he fought were Turkish Damascenes who had ridden out to send the invaders packing, or crack Muslim troops under the command of Nureddin, he did not know.
All he did know was that the enemy fought with an efficiency and a ferocity that he, a fighting man himself, could not help but admire. Professional soldiers, many used the bow — of a peculiar, curved shape — as a cavalry assault weapon, firing it from horseback with a skill born of long experience and endless training.
The effect on the Christian army was devastating. All around him Geoffroi saw men fall, some shot with the awful, penetrating arrows that flew off those strange bows, some dragged from their horses to be cut to death by knife or sword.
Geoffroi thought suddenly, I may be about to die.
As he thought this, a peculiar sense of detachment came over him. I cannot avoid what lies in store for me, he reflected fatalistically. I must do my best — of all things, a picture of his family sprang to mind, making sacrifice after sacrifice in order that he should be here, fighting before Damascus — and, if my best does not result in my escape, then I shall die and, with my sins absolved, go to Paradise.
Then he spurred his horse, screamed aloud and, with his sword held high, rode into the fray.
An unknowable time later — it could have been one hour or several — Geoffroi found himself in a press of Frankish knights fighting their way out of what appeared to be an attempted ambush. Some enemy troops had tried to corner them but, in this instance, it was the Christians who outnumbered the Turks, or Muslims, whoever they were, and the enemy soldiers were steadily being massacred.
Geoffroi, attracted by a sudden high-pitched wailing, spun round and saw the slight figure of a Muslim youth, quite short in stature, staggering into the path of a mounted Frankish knight who was bearing down on him.
In a peculiar moment of stillness, the youth turned his head and his terrified eyes met Geoffroi’s. But he’s a child! Geoffroi thought, aghast. He’s nothing but a little boy! ‘Wait!’ he yelled, waving his sword towards the charging knight, ‘stay your hand!’
The knight, who either did not hear or chose to ignore Geoffroi’s appeal, spurred his horse.
The boy had been injured; a cut to the head was bleeding profusely, and the entire right side of his face looked as if it had been painted scarlet. In addition, he seemed to be concussed; he was running round in circles, stumbling, pushing himself upright only to fall again.
Geoffroi could see an obvious way out for him; if he turned sharp right, he would be facing the entrance to a sort of tunnel between two rocky outcrops where, for a precious life-saving moment, he would be out of the charging knight’s reach.