Faithful Dead by Alys Clare Page A

– 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