“Etienne has placed levers throughout the tower so that each storey can be prised from the one beneath. Once raised off the—” Gaston turned to Etienne. “What did you call them?”

  “Locking pins,” Etienne murmured.

  Gaston turned back to Godefroi. “Having levered each storey off its locking pins, the entire tower can be disassembled, portaged across the ground, and reassembled at will. In all my years of campaigning, I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  Godefroi rubbed his bearded chin. “Do you mean to tell me we can move this tower to a new position?”

  “Within reason, messire.” Etienne directed his reply at the ground.

  Godefroi turned to Etienne. “How long would it take?”

  “With sufficient men and favourable terrain?” Etienne considered for a moment. “The tower could be moved from here to a point east of the Gate of St Stephen overnight.” He glanced up at Godefroi. “If it pleases you.”

  A slow smile spread across Godefroi’s bearded face. “So instead of attacking the Quadrangular Tower, we can approach the wall at its lowest point. The Saracens will concentrate their defences in the wrong place. By the time they realise their mistake, it will be too late. Can you imagine their shock?” He laughed in delight.

  Etienne’s face shone.

  “There’s more, messire.” Gaston gestured outside.

  Godefroi raised his palm. “A moment, Gaston. Etienne, how many chevaliers can the tower support?”

  “The upper landing can accommodate a score, although I’d caution against attempting more. The tower is already very heavy. I couldn’t afford to reinforce the floor as well.”

  “I’ll need more troops than that to take the wall.”

  “Yes, messire.” Etienne gestured outside. “Perhaps I could demon­strate?”

  “Lead on.”

  Etienne escorted them to the front of the tower. “Do you see the shutters on the second and third landings?” He pointed to the wattle screens Godefroi had noticed earlier. “They’re designed to swing inwards, allowing crossbowmen to target enemy archers. The shutters will swing back while reloading, thus protecting against counterattack.”

  “Archers can’t storm walls,” Gaston muttered.

  “Agreed,” Etienne replied, “but they can hamper Saracens on the wall.”

  Godefroi chewed the inside of his lip. “I’ll still need at least two score chevaliers to take the parapet and force the gate open.”

  Etienne nodded. “Once the tower is secured against the wall, reinforcements can climb the ladders within the tower. I’ve also placed a number of looped ropes on the upper landing, which can be thrown over the battlements to allow your men to haul the tower even closer. As an added measure, the wattle screen at the very top has been strengthened. Once your men are close enough to the wall, it can be dropped to form a bridge between tower and parapet.”

  “Like a drawbridge.” Godefroi stared at the top of the tower. “We could rush across en masse.”

  “Exactly, messire.” Etienne shifted on his feet. “I have one further proposal.”

  “We’ve been through this,” Gaston said with a quelling gesture. “The risk is too great.”

  “Let him speak,” Godefroi commanded.

  Etienne clasped his hands together. “The Saracens will attempt to destroy the tower before it can reach the wall. Compounding the problem is the ground rises against us as we near the wall. The tower will make a large and slow-moving target for catapults and Greek fire.”

  “And we have little water to waste on dousing flames,” Godefroi added.

  Etienne nodded. “Better to evade Saracen rocks and fire by approach­ing in haste.”

  Gaston shook his head, his lips pressed together.

  “How is that possible when pushing the tower uphill?” Godefroi asked.

  Etienne turned towards the Gate of St Stephen. “Do you see that low rise east of the gate?”

  Godefroi squinted against the rising sun. “What of it?”

  “If we reassembled the tower on its summit, the tower should roll in a straight line, gathering speed. Provided it remains on course, it might reach the main wall without stopping. Even if it didn’t, the Saracens won’t be able to adjust their catapults in time.”

  Godefroi considered Etienne’s proposal. “A bold idea fraught with risk. The tower could topple. The wheels might collapse. If the tower falls, Raymond will seize the city while my men rattle the gates and die beneath Saracen arrows.”

  “Exactly, as I have said on numerous occasions.” Gaston glared at Etienne.

  Etienne bowed his head. “As you say. Yet a slow march uphill will be met with stones and fire the whole way. I can’t promise the tower will endure such punishment.”

  “We’ll still have the advantage of surprise,” Gaston countered.

  “True, although I believe it will be short-lived.” Etienne addressed Godefroi. “You asked for a strategy that would give you the city at the cost of the fewest lives. This is the best solution I’ve been able to devise.”

  Godefroi sucked his teeth in thought. Etienne’s proposal was dangerous, a calculated gamble at best. He scrutinised the two men. Gaston shook his head. Etienne’s face held a fierce confidence at odds with his earlier timidity. Hugues had vouched for Etienne, which counted for much. And yet the entire outcome of the siege might rest upon this decision. Was saving lives worth the risk of failure?

  There could only be one answer.

  “Etienne, make sure the wheels are reinforced with iron. And clear any obstacles along the tower’s path during the night.” Godefroi stabbed a finger at the engineer. “Since this is your plan, you must eliminate every possible way it can fail. Understood?”

  “Yes, messire.” Etienne bowed low. “I won’t fail you.”

  “Gaston, you’ll oversee the diversion before the Quadrangular Tower. Spare as many lives as you can whilst still being convincing.”

  “As you command.” Gaston sketched a bow, disapproval etched into the lines pulling at the corners of his mouth.

  Godefroi, you can’t do this alone.

  While Hugues might be right, he did not have to like it.

  Biting down on his frustration, Godefroi went in search of breakfast.

  CHAPTER 6

  13 July 1099

  Outside Jerusalem

  Just over five thousand fighting men, and almost as many camp followers, had assembled to hear Godefroi speak. The sea of faces rippled in the heat of the mid-morning sun. Hugues probed his dry mouth with his tongue. It was a trick he had learned from his early days in the monastery, a way of keeping the body active when it had to remain still during long ceremonies. He had seen grown men faint during the mild summers of Payens and that was nothing next to the heat of the Holy Land.

  Godefroi emerged from his tent and strode to the top of a low, wooden dais. He had changed from the dull fighting armour he had worn in the morning to a burnished coat of mail that glinted in the sun. His surcoat was black with a white cross that ran from neck to crotch.

  Achambaud stopped at the foot of the dais. His dark eyes flickered across the crowd, searching for possible threats. Not as tall as Godefroi, Achambaud was almost as broad but darker of skin. His black hair was unusually long for a chevalier, cut just above the shoulder. A neat beard followed the curve of his jaw. Achambaud’s hauberk was made from dark rings of iron and his tabard was black, relieved only by a small red cross above his heart.

  The remaining nobles who had aligned with Godefroi stood on the left side of the dais. Key members of the clergy, including Hugues, had gathered on the other side. The message was clear; the temporal and spiritual leaders were united behind Godefroi.

  “Good folk of Lorraine and fellow Christians,” Godefroi called out in a voice that carried. “I know that you have all suffered. Many have succumbed during our great journey to reclaim the holy places. But now, at long last, the fulfilment of our vows is within reach!” He gestured towards the distant walls of Jerusalem. A hoarse cheer rolled across the gathering.

  “We have fasted. We have prayed. We have honoured those pilgrims that preceded us by marching barefoot around the walls of Jerusalem. Cleansed before God, we are now ready to enter His most holy city.” The approval was stronger this time. Dust ballooned as the crowd stamped their feet.

  “The final steps we take tomorrow will be our hardest yet. Many of us will surrender our lives unto God’s care. However, know that whoever falls will be honoured in heaven as martyrs. For we are about God’s work.” Godefroi spread his arms wide. “His representative on earth, his Holiness the Bishop of Rome, has blessed our cause. How can we not succeed?”

  A resounding roar greeted Godefroi’s words. Many faces in the crowd turned to the heavens. The people began to chant “Deus vult.” God wills it.

  Hugues kept his expression blank. While the masses believed they were serving God, the astute understood that Pope Urban wanted a Latin Patriarch sitting upon the throne of the Jerusalem See. No doubt the Eastern Churches would protest, although victory here would reinforce the Pope’s claim of being the preeminent representative of God in all of Christendom.

  No, the only holy quest being pursued was a secret one, known to but a few.

  “Arnulf de Chocques, will you lead us in prayer?” Godefroi asked.

  The attention of the crowd shifted to Arnulf, Chaplain to Robert of Normandy, one of the princes who supported Godefroi.

  Arnulf mounted the dais with exaggerated gravity. Sweat beaded his broad face and trickled down his thick neck. Hugues noticed his hands trembled as he clutched his Bible.

  “Brothers and sisters, let us pray.”

  A wave of hats rolled across the ocean of heads and dropped beneath the swell.

  “Our Father,” Arnulf began, “who art in Heaven, protect Thy children who have sworn to serve the cross, who fight in Thy name, and that of Thy Holy Son.”

  After all the planning, all the agitating for this pilgrimage, the whispered conversations and coin that had changed hands, they finally stood upon the threshold of victory. An unexpected chill swept through Hugues.

  “We beseech Thee to embrace those lost fighting to recover Thy most holy city.”

  The tip of a thousand quills pressed against Hugues’ skin. His chest tightened and he felt…

  “Our lives are in Thy hands, our souls indebted to our Saviour, our souls beholden to the Holy Spirit.”

  …like he had stood here before. Listened to this sermon. Sweated beneath this sun.

  “Look down upon our toil and suffering o’merciful Lord,” Arnulf continued, “and have pity, as Thou didst upon Thy Son. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory evermore. Amen.” Arnulf made the sign of the cross and blessed the entire gathering.

  The crowd replied, “Amen.”

  Hugues’ stomach muscles knotted. His throat tightened until it became hard to breathe. The ground trembled beneath God’s scrutiny. Hugues glanced at his brethren. None of the other clergy seemed to notice.

  This reaction, this acknowledgement, was for him alone then.

  Somehow the city, or the ancient land beneath it, was aware of why he had come, of the claim he hoped to stake. He flinched at the recognition.

  Godefroi returned to the dais. “Well done,” he murmured as Arnulf made way. A pleased grin split Arnulf’s coarse features.

  The strange sensations lifted as suddenly as they had arrived. Hugues felt like a wine skin emptied of its contents. His legs trembled and he remained upright only through sheer force of will.

  Godefroi’s voice soared over the crowd. “Tomorrow, we’ll stand upon those battlements.” He flung an arm at the high wall encircling Jerusalem. “Together, we’ll take back what belongs to all humble Christians. And we will avenge those pilgrims who were slaughtered on their way to the holy places.”

  The elation of the crowd changed to a dark muttering. Men gripped their weapons. Camp followers clutched at their loved ones. Devotion devolved into the ugly threat of violence in a matter of heartbeats.

  “Good folk of Lorraine and fellow Christians,” Godefroi called. “No matter what the days ahead bring, your deeds will echo through the halls of history. God be with you.”

  “And with you,” the crowd responded.

  Godefroi stepped down. “May God forgive me for those who never live to pray at the Holy Sepulchre.” He scowled at Hugues as he marched towards his tent. Achambaud gave Hugues a brief nod before following Godefroi.

  Let Godefroi think they were ready. Hugues knew a final task remained.

  CHAPTER 7

  14 July 1099

  Outside Jerusalem

  Achambaud leaned against one of the timber poles supporting Godefroi’s tent. The council of princes had ended, and the weary nobles had retired for the night. Only Baldwin de Bouillon, Godefroi’s younger brother, remained along with Godefroi, Hugues and Gaston.

  “I don’t care what you think you deserve.” Godefroi stabbed a finger at Baldwin. “You’re not entering the siege tower until we’ve secured the parapet.” Old sweat had stained the collar of Godefroi’s linen undertunic. His black bliaut had faded badly throughout their travels and showed signs of much repair.

  “There’s no honour in waiting for others to clear a path for you.” Baldwin’s cold, blue-eyed gaze did not waver in the face of Godefroi’s anger. Dark of hair and slighter in build than his older brother, he wore a grey bliaut with gold thread stitched through the sleeves and hem. A leather ceinture, also chased in gold, cinched his waist.

  “This isn’t about honour,” Godefroi protested.

  “It is for you.”

  The fair skin above Godefroi’s beard flushed with anger. “Have you forgotten how much I’ve sacrificed to fund this campaign? The Church holds the titles to all my estates.”

  “I forget nothing,” Baldwin replied in a cool voice. “What I remem­ber is being offered the chance to claim an inheritance in the Holy Land. Instead, I find that I’m prevented at every turn. If you wanted to render me irrelevant Godefroi, why didn’t you just leave me in Lorraine?”

  While Achambaud was wary of Baldwin, he understood the younger man’s complaint. He knew only too well the limited prospects of a youngest son. After all, how many times had his father locked him in the musty, unlit cellar of their castle? Too many to count. Yet it was in that darkness Achambaud had learned to touch the awareness of a passing hound or a horse champing at the bit. He had even discovered the superstitious, fearful places behind people’s eyes were not beyond his reach. That was why he always wore black. The darkness was a comfort, a place where he belonged.

  “Holding the County of Edessa is vital in maintaining the road to Constantinople.” The flush of anger had spread to Godefroi’s neck. “Why are you never content?”

  Achambaud glanced at Hugues. The Chaplain’s head was bowed and the bare skin above his tonsure glistened in the candlelight. It seemed he was either deep in thought or prayer, although Achambaud suspected he was listening closely. The rigours of the journey had hollowed out Hugues’ features. Since yesterday’s sermon from Arnulf, Hugues had become withdrawn and introspective. Surely, he did not begrudge Arnulf for leading the prayer?

  “So, you’ll accept the largesse of my new county,” Baldwin said, “but not allow me to share in the glory of taking Jerusalem. Is that the way of it?” Baldwin pushed away from the table in disgust.

  Hugues lifted his head with obvious weariness. Dark circles ringed his brown eyes. “Baldwin, you know very well that whatever food Edessa supplies today will be rewarded a hundred-fold in years to come. Our position in the Holy Land is precarious. If Baghdad and Cairo ever settle their differences, none of us will survive. So, you must live to hold Edessa while we tame Jerusalem.”

  “Your concern for my person is heart-warming,” Baldwin replied. “But I do find it strange that one of the clergy is advising me not to fulfil my sacred vow.”

  Hugues gave Baldwin a knowing look. “And I find your sudden devotion out of character. Nevertheless, you’ll get your chance to pray alongside us at the Holy Sepulchre.”

  “Enough.” The table shuddered beneath Godefroi’s fist. “Baldwin, you’ll direct our forces into the tower. You will not mount the wall until the parapet is taken. No, don’t argue with me. Etienne tells me the floor won’t support more than twenty at a time anyway. You’ll just have to wait your turn. There’ll be enough spoils inside the city to satisfy even you.”

  Baldwin pressed his lips together, wisely choosing not to argue any further.

  Godefroi addressed Gaston. “Are you convinced the Saracens have been deceived by our diversion?”

  “I believe so, messire.” Like Achambaud, Gaston did not hold suff­icient rank to earn a seat at Godefroi’s table. “The Saracens concentrated their forces at the Quadrangular Tower, as expected. Their archers slew many of the Tafurs who helped to fill the outer ditch. Enough to convince them of our intentions.”

  Godefroi grimaced. The mounds of bodies littering the approach to the north-western wall were visible to any who cared to look.

  “We’ll fill the ditch between the Gate of St Stephen and the Gate of Flowers overnight,” Gaston continued. “God willing, the Saracens won’t expect a second bridge of stones.”

  “Good.” Godefroi leaned an elbow on the table and cupped his chin. “Achambaud, how is Etienne progressing?”

  Achambaud reluctantly stepped into the light of the lanterns. “Disassembly of the tower commenced as soon as the sun set, messire.”

  “Does Etienne have sufficient men to conduct the portage?”

  “He believes so, although progress is difficult in the dark. Etienne remains confident the tower will be in its new position by dawn.”

 

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