Prince of Legend Read Free

longer possessed, the sturdy destriers as fearless as the men who rode them.
    No contingent, when they had set out, had been any better supplied when it came to horses trained for battle. Now, even with careful husbandry – Bohemund had sent his herds away when they were not required to places with pasture – they were as near to deficiency as any of the others.
    As he approached the Bridge Gate the thought of fighting for possession had to be put aside, regardless of the tactics employed; the Crusade was a delicate construct, led by men who were too proud to allow anyone to hold sway over their actions. But the one purpose they all shared and one that they had sworn the most solemn oaths to progress was that an army must march on to Jerusalem to make it once more a Christian city.
    That any of the princes should allow their pride to overcome their faith, that any of their men should fall to fighting and killing each other rather than the infidel, was held to be anathema and a certain route to perdition. The only result of such an action would be the complete collapse of the enterprise, with a massive amount of opprobrium being heaped on those who had broken their vows.
    Trial by single combat as a means of settling disputes was also out of the question, yet by his action Toulouse had taken the harmony and cohesion which had sustained the Crusade so far, albeit often strained, dangerously close to breaking, so close that one inadvertent incident, the kind of unforeseen accident committed by any man high or low in a passion, could fatally fracture it.
    On the way down from the citadel Bohemund had heard of the other places seized by Toulouse, the Governor’s Palace being one, but such things were baubles compared to the Bridge Gate, which was a strategic asset of huge significance.
    ‘I hope we Apulians still hold the St Paul’s Gate?’ Bohemund asked, looking at that bright red Toulouse banner atop the barbican. ‘Otherwise I feel a squeezing hand upon my groin.’
    ‘It seems,’ Tancred responded bitterly, ‘that our Count Raymond spent more time securing this gate than in seeking out and disposing of our enemies in the city. Perhaps if he and his knights had attended to that we might have the citadel too.’
    The mention of the fortress had Bohemund turning round and craning his neck; above the city flew not only his standard but also the green crescent banner of Yaghi Siyan, which had fluttered throughout the siege and was now the insignia of Shams ad-Daulah. It was as if both were mocking him, telling him that for all he desired possession of the city he still had a long hard fight on his hands to make it so.
    ‘Come, Tancred, we smell of death and blood. Let us bathe and change before we face our foes.’
    ‘Is Toulouse now a foe?’
    Bohemund pointed at the man’s fluttering standard above his head. ‘By such an act as this he may have rendered himself so.’
     
    No meeting of the Council of Princes, the body set up to  coordinate the joint efforts of the Papal Crusade, could be convened before the man who called it into being had said a Mass for victory. In the city of Antioch there was only one location where such a celebration could take place, for it was here that St Peter had founded his first church, carved out of a cave in the side of one of the twin peaks thatdominated the city and thus one of the holiest places in Christendom.
    For a religion that venerated Jesus as a prophet to rank with Muhammad, it was saddening that the Turks had recently used it as a latrine but that was soon remedied by willing pilgrim hands and the application of vinegar. With blazing candles illuminating the interior and much plain chant from the attendant monks, the papal legate, Adémar de Monteil, Bishop of Puy, had led his dukes and counts into the sacred space.
    Raymond of Toulouse was there, carrying his fifty years well, tall and florid of face, never willing to catch the eye of the Count of Taranto, not easy in