Bartholomew recounted how, over several months and on many occasions, apparitions had appeared to him that seemed to wake him from his slumbers, yet did not. Two ethereal presences surrounded by a glowing orb of light had come to him, one a bearded, elderly man who looked like a benign biblical prophet, the second young, dark and silent yet with a cast to his penetrating blue eyes that spoke of his divinity.
‘They are, I believe, the spirits of St Andrew, who speaks to me, and of Christ our Saviour himself, who does not.’
‘You do realise,’ Ademar pointed out, ‘that to make such a claim, if it is false, will lay you open to a charge of sacrilege?’
‘Like every other person come on this journey, Your Grace, I left home and dedicated my life to God. If it his wish that I surrender my being, then who am I to raise a question?’
‘You say this has happened more than once?’
Addressed by Raymond, Bartholomew immediately dropped to one knee and threw back the cowl that had covered his head, for he had grown up hearing of the mighty deeds of the Count of Toulouse and now, only ever having seen him from afar, he was in that illustrious presence.
‘Yes, My Lord, first when we crossed Anatolia on that desperate march through the desert in which we nearly died of thirst, and many times since.’
‘In Antioch?’ demanded Ademar, with a sharpness born of too much exposure to visions.
‘Not just here, My Lord Bishop, in many places as I went foraging for food to support our cause, but always at night and yes, once here, when we were first encamped outside the walls.’
‘You say the older man spoke?’ Raymond asked, hauling himself upright. ‘What did he say?’
‘That a piece of the Holy Lance, which pierced the very body of Christ on the crucifix, lay within the confines of St Peter’s original cave church. On that last visitation I was told to go to the spot where it was buried by the hand of St Peter himself so that I would recognise the place when the city fell and be able to recover it should the need for divine inspiration arise.’
Ademar had a carapace of seeming interest in such situations — he had dealt with many religious fanatics in his time — which masked any scepticism. Yet this claim was stretching that to the limit and what followed from this peasant did nothing to make easy holding his incredulity at bay, not that his expression dented Bartholomew’s certainty.
‘I was instructed to go to St Peter’s Church and stand over the place of burial.’
‘You entered Antioch while we had it still besieged?’ Raymond demanded.
His tone demonstrated wonder as well as an acceptance and that had Ademar questioning the seriousness of his ailment. Perhaps it was of greater threat than he had hitherto supposed for it might be affecting his mind, which had always been too superstitious for the Bishop’s liking, while his body, especially his florid, well-fed face, seemed to show few ill effects.
‘I did so in spirit, My Lord, not in person, clad in the very garment in which I now stand before you, which with a celestial touch made me invisible to the infidels who held the city. Such was my transcendence that the walls proved no barrier to my progress, so great is the power of God.’
‘You speak well for a peasant, do you not?’ Ademar scoffed, seeking to knock a man he thought a charlatan off his stride, only to receive a confident response.
‘I speak as my saint has instructed me, for I could not, humble and lacking in schooling as I am, conjure up such words.’
Count Raymond’s eyes were now alight, either with fever or faith, Ademar could not tell. ‘You say you could take us to the place where the Holy Lance is buried?’
‘My Lord, that is why I have come to you, for with that lance no Christian knight could be defeated in battle against an infidel and no man is more deserving to hold such a relic in his fighting hand as you, who, if men could see right, would have command of the whole host that will lead us to Jerusalem.’
About to respond with agreement, Raymond hesitated, no doubt from the presence of the papal legate, who was de facto in that position. That the Count of Toulouse felt he should have the leadership of the Crusade had been a barely disguised fact ever since he had arrived in Constantinople, the only man he was prepared to bow the knee to being the Emperor Alexius himself, who had hinted he would lead the enterprise personally but had signally failed to make good on his vague undertaking.
‘You waited a long time to reveal this,’ Ademar added. ‘Why?’
‘Before this day I hesitated out of fear and doubted even my own experience, but I was again visited last night and by an angry saint, so I am commanded by him and God to bring to your attention the means to strike down the force that threatens our endeavour. Even if I face a burning at the stake for speaking out, I cannot remain silent.’
‘This is nonsense,’ Ademar expostulated, waving an arm to dismiss Bartholomew.
‘That, My Lord Bishop is easy to establish,’ Raymond insisted, with a look of cunning that Ademar had never taken to. ‘Let our fellow here take us to the spot where he claims the Holy Lance is buried. If he speaks the truth we will find it, if not …’
‘Fire for my body and damnation for my soul,’ Bartholomew intoned, his eyes closed.
A search for such a holy relic, as close to the body and blood of Christ as it was possible to get, could not be kept secret and nothing so inspired faith as anything which had a connection to the Crucifixion — the bones of a martyr were as nothing by comparison and there were several of those being borne to Palestine by the Crusaders.
Ademar himself had a piece of the True Cross in his baggage, which he had bought from the Emperor Alexius. It was not the notion that a piece of the Holy Lance might exist that made him a sceptic, more the timing and claimed placement of Bartholomew’s disclosure; it was too convenient.
The reaction of the other magnates varied as Bartholomew reprised his vision, on the insistence and in the presence of Raymond, to the Council of Princes. Bohemund and Robert of Normandy were vocally dubious as to the truth of the assertion, Vermandois not willing to sway one way or the other, while Godfrey de Bouillon was sure, if it could be found, it would, as it was claimed, lead them to victory.
Robert of Flanders, a man in love with relics and the owner of many, was excited by the notion but none came to see the need to exhume the lance more than the Count of Toulouse who claimed the right, as Bartholomew’s lord and master, to oversee the endeavour; his fervour knew no bounds, yet that turned to frustration as two days of digging produced no positive result.
Six men had hacked at the floor of the cave, through the compacted earth of a millennium of worship to the softer ground below, spades wielded with decreasing gusto as they sunk ever lower to a depth where their heads were hidden from view. All this went on while sporadic fighting took place in every quarter of the defence as Kerbogha worked, not to overcome the walls but to keep his enemies on their mettle and exhausted. Peter Bartholomew stood over the dig, eyes closed and praying to the heavens, though never in doubt and hope, more in certainty that his vision was real.
Raymond, somewhat recovered in health on the prospect of the find, came to visit often, for to him the discovery of such an object had become of paramount concern, many observing this as a sign of his loss of faith and the need that it be restored by a divine revelation.
It was not long before his confidence in Bartholomew began to waver, which produced a flood of questions, the most telling being: what hands, those who had the buried the Holy Lance, would dig so deep? The peasant seer pointed out that it had needed to survive many occupations of Antioch, even the reversal of Christianity and the return to paganism forced by the Byzantine Emperor Julian, followed by the arrival and occupation of Islam.