'We are marching past the ruined city now… the sun is in our eyes… it is just coming up over the hills and, by God, it is already hot!

'Lord Brusi is riding beside me. We are talking of this and that. Torf and Skuli are behind us, and Paul and Brusi's boys are but spitting distance. Brusi raises his head and says, "Here now! What is this?"

'We look up and see four scouts flying back along the column. "The enemy approaches!" they shout. "Less than two leagues away."

'We ride to where Bohemond and Tancred have dismounted. The lords of Flanders and Normandy and all the other noblemen hasten to join us. Less than two leagues! We will not even have time to arm ourselves properly. Brave Bohemond is not stirred. "How many?" Taranto asks; he is always ready for a fight.

'The scouts are uneasy. They do not want to say. "It looks to be the sultan's war host," says the scout, avoiding the prince's stare.

'"Answer me!" demands Bohemond, his big voice shaking them out of their fright. "How many?"

"Sixty… perhaps seventy thousand, my lord," the scout replies. "Maybe more."

'Seventy thousand! We can hardly believe our ears. We have maybe eighteen thousand knights, and thirty thousand footmen-the rest are women and children, priests, and the like who do not fight. Sultan Arslan's troops are all horsed-the Saracens keep no footmen, mind.

'But the prince is not dismayed. "Ride to the other column," he commands the scouts. "Tell Count Raymond we will meet the attack here. He is to join battle at once. Get you gone, by God!"

'The scouts wheel their horses and gallop away while Bohemond instructs his standard bearer to sound the call to arms. Meanwhile, the nobles hold council to order the battleranks.

'The field is not good. We are exposed on all sides, with but a marshy place a little down from where we stand. "The reeds and shrubs will provide the best cover," says Taranto. "We will put the camp there. The knights will form the line in front of the camp." The prince points to a low rise just ahead of where the camp will be. The rise stands at the mouth of a valley formed by a low-sloping ridge which curves around the marshland like a bowl. Heaven help us, it is a sorry place to mount a defence, but there is no time to search out a better one.

"The Saracens overmatch us for numbers," the prince tells us, "but not for strength. One knight in battledress is worth ten Saracens. We have but to wait until they close on us, and then we will take them with our spears and drive them back up the hill."

'So it is agreed. The horns give out their blast and we are racing away in all directions to form the line. Knights are everywhere struggling into hauberk and war cap, and strapping on greaves and sword-belts. Slinging our shields over our shoulders, we remount our horses and hurry to our places behind our battlechiefs.

'The battle line is only half-formed when the sultan's army appears over the ridge: a hundred thousand strong. Either the scouts have made a poor count, or the Saracen host is growing as more join it from the nearby towns. We pull together as quick as may be-Lord Brusi with his sons, and I with mine, and most of the Scots fall in with Bohemond's troops-but there are big gaps in the line. We tighten our grip on our spears and await the charge. But it does not come.

'Would to God that it did! But, no, Sultan Arslan's warriors do not charge like true fighting men. Instead, they skirt the battlefield in swift, ever-moving swarms. They buzz around us like wasps. They draw near to loose their stinging arrows and feint away again, only to reappear and harass the line somewhere else.

'Still, we hold our ground. We keep our shields between us and the arrows-the few that get by the shields-are easily deflected by our good ring-mail hauberks. We stand our ground, unafraid. Let them swarm and buzz! Where is the hurt?

'Ah, but there are so many of them, and every now and then one of us slumps in the saddle and falls. More often a horse will be struck from under its rider, and that unlucky knight becomes a footman. Yet, though we bide our time, the enemy will not charge.

'Clearly, we cannot endure this abuse forever. It makes no sense to stand by while they slay us man by man. So, after a goodly time, the commanders demand another council. "They will not stand!" bellows Stephen in his rage. "How, in God's Holy name, can you fight an enemy who will not stand?"

'Once his mind is set, Bohemond is not easily shifted. "We have but to wait until they grow tired of this spineless ruse and make their attack. Then we shall cut them down like saplings."

"How long must we wait?" shrieks Count Robert. "We stand our ground and they cut us down with those infernal arrows. I say we charge!" The Duke of Normandy agrees: "Make an attack – break through and scatter the dogs, I say. Cut them as they run!"

"Bohemond commands here," Tancred reminds them. He says little, this Tancred, but he is shrewd and tough as his cousin. "If Lord Taranto says we wait, my lords, then we will wait until Judgement Day."

'The bold prince flings his hand at the swarming mass of infidel. "Look! See how many the sultan commands. They would swallow us whole. We must hold the line until Raymond's forces join us. Then we will make our attack-not before." Bohemond glares around him; he does not like our position any better than the rest, but what else can we do?

'So the lords return to their troops on the line. Brusi and I tell our Scots and Orkneyingar what the prince has decided, and we all hunker down to wait for the rest of their army to join us so the real fighting can begin. But the day is getting on before us; already the sun is passing midday and there is no sign of Raymond's armies. Where are they? But a few leagues separate us-what can be taking them so long?

'Meanwhile, the Seljuq archers are growing increasingly daring and, though it is difficult to tell, it seems more infidel take the field with every assault. We begin to fear the enemy is refreshing itself from an even greater number of warriors than we have yet seen. Bohemond rides up and down the line, calling out exhortations, keeping our courage high.

'All the while, the enemy flies at us-always swarming, swarming like wasps, like hornets shaken from the nest to sting and sting again. We stand firm. The day passes, and still Raymond's army does not appear. God have mercy! Where are they? Why have they deserted us?'

The question became an anguished cry as Ranulf, reliving the battle anew, felt again the hopelessness of that terrible day. He struggled upright, and the movement brought convulsions of pain and coughing. Murdo sitting rapt at his father's side, brought up the waterskin and gave his father to drink. 'Peace,' he said, trying to soothe. 'It is done and over; there is nothing to fear.'

Ranulf took a long pull on the waterskin, then pushed it away. 'I look down the line,' he said, falling back onto his sweat-soaked pallet. 'The gaps in the ranks are larger now. The battleline is growing ragged. The men are clumping together, seeking shelter from the arrows under one another's shields-the first sign of an army feeling its defeat, mark me.

'Bohemond is riding back and forth, shouting for the knights to reform the line, and all at once a great shout rises up. I see Bohemond turn in the saddle, and I turn, too. Duke Robert has broken from the line and is leading a charge into the nearest swarm of Turks. Lord Brusi and his sons have gone with them. We had vowed to stand together with the prince, and the fool has followed the Normandy knights into battle.

'But wait! They have caught the enemy by surprise. The Turks are thrown backward upon themselves-those coming up from behind are driven back by warriors fleeing the charge. All at once they are confounded. Turks scatter in all directions, and it seems the knights will make good the attack. Others are calling now to be released to join the charge.