About to tell a falsehood himself, it seemed clear to Grandmesnil that Blois was engaged in just that; he had never had any intention of a return to the siege of Antioch and it was apparent not just in the haste of his justification, it was also in the way he would not look the man he was addressing in the eye, instead half turning, as if by glancing south for a second he could underline the risks he had declined to run.
Grandmesnil put as much force as he could into his reply. ‘I have come at the request of your fellow lords to seek out the Emperor Alexius and his army so that they may know how our confreres are faring and ask that he hurries to their assistance.’
If Blois had any inclination to believe that, the reaction of the rest of the unkempt knights would have disabused him; long stubble and unkempt hair did nothing to obscure the look of surprise in their salt-crusted eyes, albeit that disappeared almost as quickly as it had materialised. Such a fleeting set of expressions cheered the Count of Blois; to be lied to is acceptable when one is also engaged in a high degree of dissimulation.
‘We cannot stand here when you are clearly in need of sustenance.’ A twitching nose also indicated that some clean water to wash would not go amiss. ‘Come, I will have a feast prepared and we shall search you out some decent garments. Then, with wine in hand and food in your belly, you can tell me of your adventures.’
This Grandmesnil was only too happy to relate, though first he had to describe the dire state of both the defences and the defenders of Antioch. Much was made of the daring of he and his companions, as well as the sterling aid they received in their flight from those hopefuls they left behind, added to what it took to avoid detection close to the walls. First had been the sheer difficulty of escape, for they needed to lower not just themselves but flat boards on which to float across the Orontes and they were soaked by the time they made the opposite bank. But soon he was on to their subsequent travails.
Their mistake had been to stick to the St Simeon road once they had got clear of the main Turkish lines, for the enemy had posted a piquet on that, probably more to stop and rob smugglers than to catch fleeing Latins; after all, the fewer who remained the better. The men manning the post, alerted by such a large number of knights, possibly saw not flight, which they might have ignored, but an attack.
They ignited a pre-prepared alarm beacon and set up enough of a hue before they expired on Crusader swords to set in chain a strong pursuit, luckily on foot and not mounted, otherwise Grandmesnil and his hard-running compatriots would never have got to St Simeon ahead of them.
There was no attempt to halt that pursuit, no attempt to stand and fight; their enemies were too numerous. As soon as they made the berthing jetty their only concern was to choose the best ship, one that was at single anchor, waiting for dawn to set sail. An axe saw to the anchor cable but even that was not a solution.
The Turks took to boats to seek to stop them, leading to a long and bloody fight over the bulwarks and on the ship’s deck as it drifted out to sea, a contest that accounted for many of the wounds they now carried. In all, eight of their number had either been killed or had injuries so severe that they succumbed over the following days to be, like those already expired, buried at sea.
It was natural that the talk turned back to the situation at Antioch just as it was natural that William of Grandmesnil, left by his fellow escapees as their spokesman — he was, after all, sat on the right hand of the Count of Blois, who had his comely looking Armenian mistress on his left — should paint a picture of the situation being close to hopeless, albeit that could change with the arrival of the Emperor.
There was no attempt to in any way embarrass his host, to hint that he might have seen it as his duty to come to their aid, though Blois continued to insist with every opportunity that was presented to him that he should try; both men were happy in their falsehoods.
‘The Emperor must be told what the true situation is,’ the Count insisted.
‘Which we could do if we had any notion of where he is, My Lord.’
‘We owe it to our fellows to find him, do we not?’
There was both sense and comfort in that, which led to ready agreement; to head north and find the Byzantine army was to be active without much in the way of risk. Stephen was quick to procure a ship by which the two, and they alone, should proceed by sea, heading for the last known place where imperial troops had been reported to be active under John Comnenus, the Emperor’s nephew, who commanded the imperial fleet.
A landing at Tarsus brought more solid information: Alexius himself was in command and camped to the north at Philomelium and to there they proceeded as fast as they could on horseback. Sighting the huge tented encampment, thousands of men spread over the fertile plain and having identified themselves to the guards, they were ushered into the splendid pavilion of the man who was addressed in the style, by those who served him, as the reigning Roman Emperor.
To a pair who had been riding for most of the day and were subsequently coated with dust, the magnificence of the imperial accommodation was doubly impressive: Alexius even had along a dais on which he could place a throne-like chair so as to be above anyone whom he addressed. As in his palace, high officials, courtiers, as well as his huge axe-wielding Varangian guards surrounded the Emperor, while the decor matched anything to be found in a more solid structure.
Thick carpets lay one over the other on the ground, while military standards lined the silken sides. The light from the numerous oil lamps, as well as the sun, which streamed through the canvas roof, sent beams of glitter flashing off the kind of gold and silver objects with which Imperial Constantinople surrounded itself; it was display, of course, and impressive enough to cow anyone who came upon it as a friend. More importantly it would astound the representative of an enemy come to parley.
Yet it was not all Byzantium; there were Franks in attendance too, men who had come east to join the Crusade and, it seemed, expected to do so in the company of the imperial host, among them Guy de Hauteville, Duke of Amalfi, half-brother to Bohemund and a man well known to William of Grandmesnil. If he was greeted with nothing but eye contact — protocol denied any other way — it was as a friend. The two arrivals having made their obeisance with deep bows, Alexius immediately enquired as to from where they had come.
‘I from Alexandretta, Highness,’ replied Blois, adding to an immediately raised and quizzical eyebrow, ‘where I was recovering from a long and debilitating illness.’
‘Cared for by three hundred lances, I am told,’ Alexius replied, though he was careful to add to that there had also been mendicant monks to bring the Lord of Blois back to full health.
The eyes of Count Stephen flicked towards Tacitus then, the half-breed general with the golden nose Alexius had sent south with the Crusade to ensure imperial interests were served; such information very likely came from him. However it was imparted or gilded it told Blois that the Emperor knew what had been happening around Antioch, while the temptation to refer to the fact that Tacitus and his men had also left the siege at much the same time had to be resisted. He would have done so under orders from the man on the throne.
‘And you, Grandmesnil?’ Alexius asked.
A falsehood now so well honed by repetition came out without hesitation, William looking the Emperor right in the eye, both to give credence to what he was saying and to seek to discern if he was being believed. That was a waste of time with a man like Alexius Comnenus, so well trained, as he had to be, in masking his feelings.
‘And how do you see their prospects in Antioch now?’
Such a question demanded a response larded with both gravity and sorrow, both of which Grandmesnil managed in abundance, lent more of both by the speaker’s belief than it was true.