Enchantress Page 4

  Bohemund had returned to camp in high spirits. Edgar had brought the makings of siege weapons and Bohemund was adamant about building a fort around the Gate of St. George, to block the route that was still being used to supply the city. It turned out to be a wise maneuver and with Tancred in control, the fort did its job quite well.

  In April a Fatimid embassy from Egypt arrived, to try to negotiate a peace with them as they were at war with the Seljuks as well. They offered to let the Europeans keep Syria, as long as they would leave Fatimid Palestine alone. Unfortunately, that conflicted with the whole cause of the journey, as Jerusalem was a part of Palestine. Godfrey would not relinquish the city and the Fatimids left unsatisfied though peacefully. It was at that moment that a plan begun to form for Bohemund. Bohemund cared little for Jerusalem, all he wanted was Antioch. If he could get Godfrey to continue on with the rest of the leaders, maybe he could claim Antioch for himself.

  When news came of another Seljuk army on its way to aid Antioch, Bohemund knew he had to act quickly. Unbeknownst to all but Rannulf, Bohemund had been meeting with an Armenian guard by the name of Firouz. The guard had a grievance with Yaghi-Siyan and was open to bribery. He agreed to get them into the city and had advised them to feign a march out to meet the Seljuk army then return at night, to scale the walls near the Tower of the Two Sisters.

  Bohemund had approached the other leaders, saying that he had a way into the city. He offered to let them in as well, if they let him claim the city for himself. They were furious but under the circumstances there was nothing for them to do but acquiesce. So now they all prepared for their “march” out, to meet the oncoming Seljuk force.

  “We are ready,” Bohemund appeared in the tent’s opening. “Come now, man, don’t look so glum. Tonight we’ll be sleeping within the walls of one of the greatest cities on Earth.”

  Rannulf frowned and wondered why Bohemund’s words caused him to feel only apprehension.

  “Kerbogha approaches,” Yaghi-Siyan said as he entered Ayla’s chambers. A servant walked behind him, carrying a tray of pastries and a pot of steaming coffee. “Join me,” it was a command not a request. He indicated that the servant should put the tray down on the table next to the couch. Ayla walked over and seated herself as far from him as possible.

  “They defeated Ridwan and that was while they were still recovering from my curse,” she said thoughtfully. “What makes you think Kerbogha can overcome them?”

  “Kerbogha always wins,” Yaghi-Siyan vowed. “He's not a man easily conquered.”

  “Neither was Ridwan,” she studied him from under lowered lashes.

  “What have you seen?” He asked angrily, leaning forward to confront her.

  “Nothing,” she sighed. “The future has become a black, impenetrable veil for me. Sometimes fate is too strong to be changed and the sight becomes unnecessary. Whatever will come, it will not be swayed.”

  “Then you have not seen Kerbogha’s defeat?” His mood lightened considerably and he poured her a cup of the thick coffee.

  “No, my lord,” she admitted with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  “Well then,” he smiled at her. “Let us hope for the best outcome.” He raised a pastry to his mouth and took a bite, never suspecting that it would be the last thing he ever enjoyed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rannulf had never seen such slaughter. In all his years of fighting, war had never disturbed him so greatly. The plan had gone well. Firouz had made sure there were no guards near the wall they scaled. They had gained entrance quite easily and when it became apparent that the invaders were taking the city, the remaining Christians of Antioch had opened more gates and even participated in the massacre that followed.

  The streets were littered with bodies. Men, women and children, none were spared in the horrible rampage. Rannulf lowered his sword and looked around him in disgust. He could still hear the women crying, begging in their foreign tongue, for the lives of their children. He began to shake, his sword fell from his hands, and he dropped to his knees. When he looked up he realized that he knelt before one of the many Christian churches of Antioch.

  Rannulf got to his feet in a daze and, leaving his sword in the street, he entered the beautiful church. Inside, it was cool and dark, not a single candle burned. At the back of the church was a beautiful gold cross above an altar covered in rich, red silk. He walked through the rows of benches and knelt before the altar, to look up at the cross reverently. He was never a religious zealot but at that moment he desperately needed to believe in something.

  “Dear God, give me guidance,” he prayed. “This can not be your plan.”

  Light shone in suddenly as the church door opened once more and illuminated a huddled mass of black fabric in a corner near the altar. Rannulf got up to investigate and found it to be a Turkish woman with a little girl.

  “Rannulf,” Godfrey said from behind him. “I thought this was your sword.” He walked over and handed Rannulf the discarded blade. Rannulf turned away from the couple and accepted his weapon.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, as he shifted in an effort to block his discovery.

  “What have we here?” Godfrey walked over and pulled the woman to her feet. The little girl instantly started to whine. Her mother shushed her, in their language.

  “Let her be, Godfrey,” Rannulf said quietly.

  “Eh?” Godfrey looked over his shoulder at Rannulf. “She’s Turk, can’t you tell?”

  “She’s an unarmed woman with a child,” Rannulf sighed, “hardly a threat.”

  “She’s a heathen,” Godfrey sneered, “just like that witch that cursed us. Maybe I’ll make use of her before I kill her. I can imagine it’s that black-haired sorceress.” He pulled the woman’s head veil off her roughly but suddenly stopped as he felt the tip of Rannulf’s sword in his back.

  “You shame your country as well as our God,” Rannulf said quietly. “Do you not know where we stand?”

  Godfrey looked around him and took in the cross and altar. He paled a little as he realized what he was about to do in God’s house. Then he recovered and started to pull the woman out.

  “She sullies this place with her very presence,” Godfrey said as he walked by Rannulf. “How dare she use a church of God as her sanctuary? You heathen bitch, I’ll take you in the streets, before all your people!” The woman started to whimper, not understanding the words but recognizing the threat. Rannulf grabbed Raymond by the tunic and pulled him away from the woman.

  “I said to let her be,” Rannulf stared steadily at the man. Godfrey was about to press the issue when he saw the dangerous look in Rannulf’s eyes. No woman was worth facing this man over. He put up his hands and backed away warily.

  “I didn’t know you wanted the woman, why didn’t you just say so?” Godfrey continued backing up. “I’ll find another.” He left quickly, with a chill spreading down his spine.

  Rannulf looked down at the woman who stared at him curiously. “I will not harm you,” he said in Latin, hoping she’d understand.

  She smiled a little and motioned to the child. The child came over and took her mother’s hand. With her free hand, she pulled her outer veil up, over her head, then she took Rannulf’s dirty hand.

  “We worship the same God, Christian,” she said in perfect Latin. “We just do it in different ways and with a different name. I meant no disrespect by hiding here.” Rannulf cocked his head as he looked at her. He had never thought of it like that.

  “I’m sure God took no offense, Lady.” The woman smiled again and nodded her head.

  “My name is Beyza al-Fenari,” she said. “This is my daughter, Esma.” The child looked up at him with large, dark eyes that resembled the sorceress’. There was too much pain in them, for such a small girl. Rannulf swallowed the lump in his throat and knew he’d never forget that little face with its somber stare.

  “You must go,” he said. “Or my interference will be for naught. I’ll escort you to safety b
ut I can't go with you beyond the walls.”

  “That is all I need,” she smiled again before she followed him out into the street.

  Rannulf put his arm around her shoulder as they made their way through the death filled streets of Antioch, conveying a strong message of protection to any who thought to harm the lady. One look at the massive soldier deterred all and they arrived at the Gate of the Dog without incident. Rannulf held his still unsheathed sword before him and cleared their path through the gate. Men parted before them in confusion, eying the Norman and his Turks.

  “Hurry now,” Rannulf said as he removed his arm and indicated the direction they should take. “You’ll be safe along that route, our men are all inside.” He turned to go but the woman stopped him.

  “Remember my name, warrior,” she said calmly. He looked back at her over his shoulder. “I am known by all along the River Euphrates. If you ever find yourself in need there, speak my name to any you encounter and you will be cared for.” Then she turned away and disappeared silently into the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “They have taken the city!” Yaghi-Siyan was hysterical. “How could this happen?”

  Ayla ignored him, in fact she was trying to ignore all of it. She had her hands over her ears and was trying desperately to reach a meditative state, where she could escape the horrible screams coming from the city.

  “Ayla!” He shook her till she looked at him. “Do something!”

  “What would you have me do?” She asked quietly. “If I had the power to stop an invading army, do you think I would have let you imprison me?”

  “But your magic…the curse.” His eyes were wild with fear.

  “Poison and minor spells. I did all I could for you,” she looked toward her balcony. “I told you the future was set. The Christians were meant to win this battle.” Yaghi-Siyan slapped her hard and sent her flying to the floor.

  “Worthless witch,” he yelled as he stormed out of the room.

  She stood slowly and went to the balcony, to look down into the palace courtyard. The walls of Antioch Palace were as strong as the walls of the city. They would hold and the Christians would find another siege waiting for them.

  Bohemund paced the length of the beautiful chambers he now occupied, in one of the loveliest districts of Antioch. He'd chosen a large, magnificent home, close to an aqueduct. A fresh breeze drifted through, cooled and cleansed of death by the nearby water. Inside, the old Roman mosaics still graced the floors, although they were covered in many places by plush Turkish carpets. The chamber opened onto a courtyard, where fountains bubbled merrily and potted fruit trees released their fragrance. It was breathtaking but Bohemund noticed none of it.

  “Yaghi-Siyan is in the palace as well?” Bohemund questioned his squire.

  “Yes, m’lord,” Arnaud said. “The walls are almost as impenetrable as Antioch itself. We will have to wait for their surrender.”

  “I’m tired of waiting,” Bohemund ranted. “I want that man’s head on a plate!”

  “We have the city, Uncle,” Tancred tried to calm him. “It’s only a matter of time. Why don’t we enjoy the victory? Look at this place…have you ever seen such luxury?” Bohemund looked around at the sumptuous room and suddenly noticed someone was missing.

  “Where’s Rannulf?” Bohemund asked.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Arnaud looked confused as well. “I’ll send someone to find him.”

  Two hours later, a man returned with news of Rannulf’s location. He shifted nervously as he stood before them.

  “Well,” Bohemund said. “Where is he?”

  “My lord,” the man started, “he’s in a church. He won’t speak to anyone. He just sits and stares at the cross. I fear for his sanity.”

  “Show me,” Bohemund was already heading out the door.

  He strode through the bloody streets, disregarding the piles of bodies waiting to be hauled away. He'd never been victorious without Rannulf at his side and he felt the lack of his friend’s presence weighing on him. The thought of Rannulf being unwell never crossed his mind, it was obviously a mistake, Rannulf was the most resilient man he knew. When they reached the church, Bohemund entered quickly and was shocked to find exactly what had been reported to him.

  “Rannulf?” Bohemund sat down next to his friend. Rannulf glanced over at him then back to the cross. “What ails you?” Bohemund leaned forward to peer over into Rannulf’s face with genuine concern.

  “How can you not be bothered by what we just did?” Rannulf finally turned away from the altar to speak to Bohemund. He had returned to the church after seeing to Beyza’s safety. He could think of nowhere else to go.

  “What do you mean?” Bohemund was confused by the seasoned warrior’s reaction to the victory. “We won, we finally won and you sit here in remorse like a monk? What has happened to you?”

  “We are supposed to be soldiers of God,” Rannulf sneered. “There was nothing holy about that slaughter.”

  “The men have been through a brutal siege,” Bohemund nodded as he spoke quietly. “They got carried away with the blood lust.”

  “Carried away?” Rannulf stood and Bohemund felt like a child, looking up the towering length of his friend. “There are bodies littering the streets… all the streets, children and women as well as men. Have we no mercy?”

  “No, Rannulf,” Bohemund sighed and got to his feet. “There is no mercy in war.” Rannulf clenched his jaw and looked back to the altar. “Come now, we’ve seen many battles together, bloodshed is not new to you.”

  “Bloodshed, no,” Rannulf agreed, “but ruthless violence is.”

  “It’s over now,” Bohemund turned to leave. “Nothing can be done for it. Come back with me and maybe there will be no more ruthlessness.” Rannulf picked up his sword from the floor and spared one last look for the altar before he wearily followed his friend out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bohemund’s laughter echoed in the cavernous chamber. The men seated on the low couch with him, looked at each other in confusion.

  “Bohemund,” Godfrey started. “Did you hear me correctly? I just said that Kerbogha has laid siege to the city.”

  “Do you not see the humor in it?” Bohemund still had a horrible smirk on his face. “We finally conquer the city, only to become victims of a new siege. On top of that, the city is almost empty of food because of our success in cutting off their supplies in March. So here we are, the conquering, starving heroes with yet another battle on our hands. Are you still certain that God is on our side, Raymond?”

  “Bohemund, this is not the time for jokes or blasphemy,” Godfrey admonished.

  “Oh?” Bohemund smiled. “When is the right time for blasphemy?”

  “Damn you, Bohemund,” Godfrey lunged for his smiling face but Rannulf was once again between them.

  “Enough,” Rannulf said. “I tire of playing these children’s games. Get along or get out.”

  “Don’t worry, my lords,” Bohemund said. “Now that I have Antioch, I have no intention of losing it. All will be taken care of.”

  Five days later a minor monk named Peter Bartholomew, claimed to have visions of St. Andrew, in which the Saint revealed that the Holy Lance, the spear that pierced the side of Christ, was buried within the city. Rannulf rolled his eyes upon hearing the news but Raymond of Tolouse, the ever pious, was filled with excitement and joined a group of men who began digging in the cathedral of the monk’s patron saint.

  They dug for four hours and found nothing. Rannulf and Bohemund went to witness the spectacle and Rannulf was not at all surprised to see Peter jump into the pit at the last moment and “discover” a spear point where no one seemed to be looking. A great cheer went through the gathered men and Rannulf pushed his way out of the crowd in disgust.

  Peter promptly had another vision in which St. Andrew told him that the army should fast for five days, after which time, they would be victorious. Rannulf looked over at Bohemund during the
announcement and caught the secret smile playing about his friend’s lips. He should have known Bohemund was behind this. Peter’s visions had little to do with God.

  The men fasted, which wasn’t so difficult since they were already starving, but the victory didn’t come till June 28, when Bohemund led an attack out of the city gates. Raymond had taken ill and was left behind to guard the palace, so Raymond of Aguilers took his place, carrying the Holy Lance into battle before them. He rode out proudly, lifting the spear high for all to see and the men were overcome with the spirit of God.

  Rannulf marched out beside Bohemund, overcome with nothing but weariness. He dearly hoped that this would be the last battle this city would see. Kerbogha led his forces out to meet them and they could soon see the conical helmets of their assailants, shining in the mid-day sun.

  Next to Rannulf, Bohemund shouted his battle-cry and spurred his horse forward. Rannulf unsheathed his sword and followed, the cries of the foot soldiers rising behind him, swearing they saw saints riding beside them. Rannulf shook his head, silently wishing he was starved enough to see visions as well. It might have made the battle easier.

  Suddenly, Kerbogha began to retreat and the Christian soldiers cheered as they pursued the Turks. Rannulf tried to signal Bohemund that he suspected a trap but his friend was already chasing the retreating Turks as if victory was assured.

  “Bohemund!” Rannulf shouted as he chased after him. He finally caught up with him and shouted. “Trap!” But it was too late. A shower of arrows fell upon them and Rannulf leapt from his horse to topple Bohemund to the ground.

  “Rannulf,” Bohemund groaned as he tried to push his friend’s massive weight off of him.

  “Stop,” Rannulf cried as Bohemund pushed once more. Rannulf lifted up and scooted over enough to let Bohemund out before collapsing. Bohemund looked at Rannulf’s back in shock, three arrows stuck out of his body.