Siege of Heaven Read Free Page A

themselves at the head of the pilgrims,’ I warned him, ‘and it has never ended well.’ The first man to do so, a self-styled hermit also named Peter, had led the pilgrims with assurances of divine immunity from swords and arrows. A single, terrible battle had proven the emptiness of that promise.
    ‘God made you a vessel for His purpose and granted you a wonderful vision.’ It was hard to believe that anyone would have chosen Peter Bartholomew for such a purpose – but perhaps it was ever so with visionaries. ‘That is more than most men can dream of in a lifetime.’
    He bridled again, snapping his head angrily, though this time I had not intended to provoke him. ‘ Most men never dream at all. They crawl the earth like pigs, snoutsto the ground, never stopping to wonder why the farmer bothers to feed them. God’s plan for me did not end when I found the lance – it has barely begun. And when it comes to His fullness, these fat princes will curse themselves for treating me like a peasant.’
    His voice had risen, far louder than was wise in the company of the men he vilified. He realised it now, and stared around in wild defiance to see if he had provoked any reaction. To his immediate relief, and then anger, none of the surrounding lords paid him the least attention.
    ‘They will notice me soon enough,’ he mumbled. Forgetting me, he pushed away through the crowd.
    I sighed. I knew too much of his history – the immoral diseases that ravaged his body, the flirtation with heresy that had almost cost him his life – to be taken in by his delusions, but I still pitied him. I could guess how he felt. Little more than a year earlier, I had walked freely in the halls of the palace at Byzantium – had even, for brief moments, been a confidant of the emperor. Now I lingered in the wilderness beyond the fringes of civilisation, not as punishment or in disfavour but simply because life had brought me there.
    Talking with Peter Bartholomew had drawn me out of the shade, into the centre of the courtyard where the sun beat down. I looked for another cup of wine to cure my thirst, knowing I would regret it later, but there was none to be seen. I wandered along the fringes of the crowd, scanning for familiar faces and wondering what errand the patriarch intended for me.
    ‘And will you go on to Jerusalem?’
    The voice was so close, the question so much in my own mind, I thought it must have been spoken to me. It was only when I turned that I saw my error: the speaker was standing with his back to me, oblivious to my presence, while his companion stood beside him. Both were dressed in richly woven robes, and golden threads picked out the sign of the cross on their sleeves. With a start, I recognised Duke Godfrey and Bohemond.
    ‘I took my oath to pray beside Christ’s tomb,’ Bohemond answered Godfrey. ‘But I am not in a hurry. Too many questions demand my attention in Antioch for the moment.’
    ‘Count Raymond may have his own answers to those questions.’
    Bohemond made a swatting gesture with his hand. ‘There will only be one lord in Antioch, and it will not be Count Raymond. Nor the king of the Greeks either.’
    Godfrey made no sound of argument. Instead: ‘The road to Jerusalem will be longer and harder without your army.’
    Again, Bohemond waved his concerns away. ‘Our victory over the Turks has broken them for a generation. With a strong Antioch defended at your back, you could be in Jerusalem in a fortnight. If you still mean to go.’
    From behind, I saw Godfrey nod slowly. ‘I will go.’
    ‘To honour your oath?’ There was a taunt in Bohemond’s voice.
    ‘To honour God – and to answer the destiny written for me.’
    Bohemond laughed. ‘Written in your book?’
    ‘Written in my book,’ Godfrey agreed. There was no laughter in his voice.
    ‘And what book is that?’
    The cheerful question rang out behind me. Godfrey and Bohemond turned with a start, and suddenly I was trapped between