“Is that where you keep your wine? No wonder it tastes so foul!”
Geoffrey smiled at Roger, who was easing the stiffness out of his joints in a series of cracks and grunts. Hugh was still asleep, sprawled across the bed, with his mouth open.
“I am going to mass,” said Geoffrey. “I might be able to find out where Courrances, d’Aumale, and Warner were last night.”
Roger nodded toward Hugh. “We should let him sleep,” he said in a stentorian whisper that was almost louder than his normal voice. Hugh stirred, but did not waken. He had lost the pallor of the night before, and Geoffrey imagined resting would do him more good than any of his or Roger’s fumbling ministrations. The dog opened a bleary eye and closed it again with an irritable growl that rumbled deep in its chest.
The two knights walked across the bailey toward the chapel. The citadel was already heaving with life. The great ironbound doors were opening and shutting continuously, allowing a stream of carts through, although each one was allocated a soldier who would stay with it until it left. The Advocate was only too familiar with tales of great fortresses falling to treachery, and he had no intention of allowing his wells to be poisoned, or weevils put in his siege supplies, for the sake of some basic security.
Roger strode into the chapel, blithely ignoring the rule that all weapons should be left in the porch. He bared his big brown teeth at the monk who stepped forward to remind him, and the man cowered back, uncertain as to whether the gesture was friendly or hostile. Geoffrey unbuckled his sword, but kept his dagger under his surcoat.
Mass was just beginning, with monks in the black habits of the Benedictines chanting a psalm. Geoffrey tipped his head back and studied the ceiling as he listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of the plainsong. The mosaics here were fine, too, he thought, depicting scenes from the Bible in brilliant golds, greens, and blues that shone vividly, even in the dull light of early morning.
A group of knights entered noisily, their spurs clanking on the stone floor. Among them were d’Aumale and Warner. The monks, used to such interruptions, did not falter in their singing, even when two Lorrainers began a noisy conversation about horses. Courrances, wearing his robe with the cross that glimmered whitely in the gloom, stood to one side, also chanting, although his pale blue eyes darted here and there, noting who was present and who stood next to whom.
While the monks sang and the celebrant went through the ritual movements of the mass, the knights fidgeted and shuffled. Some chatted, one hummed a folk song loudly to himself, and others sighed and whispered. All stood, although one or two lounged against pillars. D’Aumale and Warner talked to each other, laughing helplessly at some joke, their mirth sufficiently loud to draw disapproving glares from the celebrant. At last it was over, and the knights trooped noisily toward the hall for breakfast. Geoffrey approached d’Aumale and Warner and greeted them cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he said, fishing around for a noncontentious subject with which to draw them into conversation. “Helbye informs me that you plan to hold an archery competition. It is an excellent notion. I hope my men will be allowed to compete?”
“I heard your dog was ill last night,” said d’Aumale irrelevantly, exchanging a look of amusement with Warner. “I cannot think why you keep that wretched thing. It is wholly devoid of redeeming features.”
“Your kindred spirit,” said Warner to Geoffrey, and he and d’Aumale howled with laughter. Geoffrey fought not to reply with one of a tide of biting responses that rose unbidden into his mind.
“Poor Hugh was not well either,” put in Roger. “Nor was the monk who came to seek the safety of our citadel.”
“Probably went too near that dog,” said Warner, and laughed again. Geoffrey looked away. It might be easy to beguile them into betraying themselves, but it would not be pleasant.
“The monk, Marius, was not quite dead when we returned,” lied Geoffrey. “He described his killer to us.”
Warner and d’Aumale exchanged a glance. “Really?” said d’Aumale. “And what did this killer look like? We are all concerned about a murderer within our walls.”
“A Lorrainer,” said Roger heartily. Geoffrey cringed. Roger was not the right person to be indulging in these kind of games. He was far too indiscreet and brutal. Hugh, on the other hand, would have understood Geoffrey’s intentions instantly, and thrown himself into the game with consummate skill.
“You lie!” exclaimed d’Aumale, looking from Roger to Geoffrey. “You slander us all!”
“Do we? Then where were you last night?” demanded Roger. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair. He could see the way this discussion would end.
“Well, we were not here!” growled Warner. “We were out and did not return until after you did.”
“How did you know when we returned?” asked Geoffrey quickly, “if you were not here to see us arrive back?”
Warner spluttered with rage, although whether because he had been caught in a lie, or because he resented being questioned, was not easy to guess. “We were out!”
“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Geoffrey with quiet reason.
“Vouch for us? What do you think we are, common soldiers?” shouted d’Aumale, bristling with indignation. “We do not need to discuss our whereabouts with a Norman!”
“True. You do not,” said Geoffrey. “But you will save me a good deal of time if you do, and time wasted on investigating a false trail might lead to the death of another man.”
“I care nothing about your trails!” snarled Warner. “You are like that fat dog of yours, sniffing around in the garbage, looking for murderers! Call this villain out for a fair fight, like any decent knight should do!” His chest heaved with emotion, and flecks of spit gathered around his buff-coloured moustache.
“You are welcome to try that tactic,” said Geoffrey. “But I doubt it will work. Where were you? At a brothel?”
It was not an unreasonable suggestion. There were several institutions where knights were more than welcome, and which formed a mechanism whereby the plunder taken by the Crusaders from the hapless citizens after the city’s fall gradually trickled back to its original owners.
Warner was incensed, and the mounting colour in his cheeks told Geoffrey that he had guessed correctly. But that still did not mean that he or d’Aumale had not killed Marius, for the guard on the citadel gates had been a Lorrainer and would never reveal to Geoffrey the exact time when Warner and d’Aumale had returned. In the citadel, most things could be bought and sold, but not a soldier’s loyalty to his lord. Not if he wished not to be killed in a weapons’ drill by his comrades, or to have his throat slit while on night manoeuvres, or to be selected for every dangerous mission until his luck ran out.
“You are being ridiculous,” said Roger glibly to Geoffrey. “What self-respecting whore would sleep with a Lorrainer?”
Warner leapt toward Roger, his face a mask of fury. Geoffrey stretched out a hand, intending it to be a pacifying gesture, but Warner misunderstood, and in an instant, his sword was drawn. D’Aumale’s was out too, and so was Roger’s. Geoffrey’s lay on the pile in the porch, with those of the other law-abiding knights of the citadel.
“Not in a church!” he cried, grabbing Roger’s arm and trying to pull him away. “No violence in a church!”
“Are you afraid to fight, Norman?” hissed Warner, advancing on Geoffrey with a series of hacking sweeps of his sword that cut the air as cleanly as a whistle. Geoffrey retreated hastily.
“I will not fight in a church!”
“You will if you do not want to die!”
Geoffrey heard the clash of steel, and saw Roger and d’Aumale already engaged. Roger lunged forward with a blow that knocked the smaller man backward, forcing him to retreat before the onslaught, while d’Aumale defended himself with quick, short jabs that just kept Roger at a distance. Geoffrey felt the whistle of steel slice past his face, and realised Warner meant to kill him, armed or not. He whipped the dagger from his belt,
and jerked backward, away from a savage swipe that missed him by a hair’s breadth.
Warner was white with fury, and Geoffrey realised he must have angered the man more than he had guessed, for his expression was murderous. Armed only with a dagger, Geoffrey could not hope to win a fight against Warner, a superb swordsman. The best he could do was to try to stay out of reach, and tire his opponent by luring him to hack and sweep. When Warner grew weary from wielding the heavy weapon, Geoffrey might be able to dart through his defences and attack him with his knife.
The sword hacked down, and the tip caught against Geoffrey’s mail shirt, slicing through it like a knife through butter and throwing him off balance. He scrambled away and ducked behind a pillar. Warner’s sword struck it so hard that sparks flew from the blade, leaving a deep gouge in the smooth white stone. Warner swung again and again, and Geoffrey felt him gaining ground. He ducked and weaved, and dodged this way and that around the pillars, but Warner was relentless. Then Geoffrey was hard up against the back wall of the church with nowhere else to go. Warner’s eyes glittered in eager anticipation, and he tensed his arm, ready for the fatal blow.
While Warner prepared to strike, Geoffrey dived at him using every ounce of his strength to drive him off balance. He saw Warner’s sword swing round, and felt the upper part of the blade crunch into his ribs. And then the momentum of Geoffrey’s lunge sent them both sprawling, scrabbling at each other like a pair of wildcats. Warner fought like tiger, abandoning his sword, and pummelling Geoffrey with his mailed fists. Geoffrey, stunned by a dizzying blow to his temple, felt Warner gaining the upper hand, and with a spurt of strength that verged on the diabolical, Warner heaved himself upright and fastened his hands around Geoffrey’s throat.
Warner’s strength was prodigious, reinforced by his clear loathing of the Norman. Geoffrey felt his head begin to swim from lack of air, but with calm presence of mind he swung his arm upward and brought the point of his dagger to Warner’s throat. Warner gazed in disbelief at the weapon and then at Geoffrey, who could now dispatch him with ease despite Warner’s superior position. With a groan of frustration and anger, Warner let his hands go slack, and Geoffrey found he could breathe again. He struggled out from underneath Warner, still keeping the dagger firmly at the Lorrainer’s throat and fought to regain his breath.
“Stop this outrage!”
All four knights turned at the sound of the furious voice. Godfrey, Duke of Lower Lorraine and Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre, stood in the doorway of the chapel and glowered at them. For a moment, they were frozen in a guilty tableau of violence, but then weapons were dropped and put away, and the four climbed warily to their feet.
“Are there not Saracens enough to fight that you need to squabble with each other?” shouted the Advocate. “And in a church of all places?”
“We were provoked,” said Warner sullenly. “They attacked, and what else were we to do than defend ourselves? They heaped insults upon Lorraine and Burgundy!”
“Which was it, cousin?” asked the Advocate with menacing calm. “Did they attack you first, or did they provoke you to attack them with their insults? You cannot have it both ways.”
“We did not …” began Roger.
“Silence!” barked the Advocate. “I know you serve Bohemond, and you,” turning to Geoffrey, “serve Tancred. But they hold their territories under my liegeship. And while in this citadel and in this city, you are responsible to me! I will not have brawling among the knights. What hope do we have of maintaining peace among the troops when you set this kind of example?”
He scowled at each of them in turn. Behind him, in the gaggle of monks and knights who were in constant attendance, Courrances watched with detached amusement, a small smile playing at the corners of his thin lips. Geoffrey watched him. He knew that a few sibilant words breathed into the Advocate’s ever-listening ear would absolve Warner and d’Aumale from blame and bring it all firmly to rest on the shoulders of Roger and him. But Courrances preferred to watch from the sidelines, knowing he had the power to intervene if he felt so inclined, but enjoying the display of disunity between the Normans and the Advocate’s men.
The anger went from the Advocate as quickly as it had come, and he raised his hands in a gesture of despair. He fixed Warner and d’Aumale with his faded blue eyes. “Wait for me in my quarters,” he said wearily. “I must go to Jaffa again, to conduct negotiations with the merchants from Venice. I want you to organise a guard that will protect me and impress the Venetians, but that will leave sufficient troops here to defend Jerusalem.”
Warner and d’Aumale bowed and left, and outside Geoffrey could hear the cheers and laughter of their fellow knights congratulating them on the fight. The Advocate dismissed his retinue with a flick of his hand. No one moved, and it was Courrances who began to usher people out of the chapel. In moments, the chapel was empty with the exception of the Advocate and Geoffrey, while Courrances lurked among the shadows of the pillars, far enough away to be discreet, but certainly close enough to hear what was being said.
“Sir Warner is a hotheaded bully,” said the Advocate. “But his loyalty and courage are invaluable to me. Please bear that in mind when you pick a fight with him next time.”
Geoffrey met his eyes evenly and said nothing. The Advocate was the first to look away, and Geoffrey noticed how tired and ill he looked. The Advocate’s previous visit to Jaffa had ended when he was struck with a mysterious fever—rumours that he had been poisoned were rife—and had to be brought back to Jerusalem to recover.
“What news have you for me about the deaths of the two knights and the monks?”
Geoffrey rubbed his chin, which reminded him he had not shaved for some time, and realised he had very little to tell the Advocate. He outlined what he had learned from interviewing the witnesses the day before, omitting reference to Jocelyn’s ambiguous role, and described the death of Marius. The Advocate grew more pale.
“A monk murdered within the citadel, and a knight knocked senseless,” he breathed. “This cannot go on! This business is affecting the very roots of our hold on Jerusalem.” He pulled hard on the straggling hairs of his long, blond moustache. “So what do you deduce from all this? Do you agree with my brother that the Jews are behind it, with Courrances that the Arabs are responsible, or with me that the Patriarch knows more than he is telling? Or have you an alternative hypothesis?”
Geoffrey did not, and he felt that the evidence to support any theory was weak, to say the least. There was clearly a Greek connection: Loukas was Greek, possibly a spy; John was found dead in the house of Melisende Mikelos, a Greek widow; Dunstan had poisoned Greek cakes in his desk; and the three men who had followed him after his meeting with Tancred had spoken Greek. However, the death of the double agent Jocelyn implied that the business had something to do with the Patriarch, while all three knights—Guido, John and now Hugh—had been in Bohemond’s service. Geoffrey decided there was nothing to be gained from telling the Advocate about Jocelyn, and certainly nothing by highlighting Bohemond’s connection. He outlined his suspicions that there might be a Greek dimension cautiously, unsure as to how the Advocate might react.
“The Greeks,” said the Advocate grimly. “We were foolish not to have slaughtered every last one of them when we conquered the city. Now we have nurtured a viper at our breast.”
“Possibly,” said Geoffrey, “but this smacks more of the actions of a few individuals, perhaps even one, and not the entire community.”
“I suppose I have time to arrange a massacre before leaving for Jaffa,” said the Advocate, discouraged only by the effort and time it would take. “If we slaughter the lot of them, we will be certain to kill these individuals of yours, and that will be the end of the affair.”
The slaughter of hundreds of innocent people to ensure the execution of a few would definitely not be a prudent political move, thought Geoffrey, frantically scrabbling around for reasons to stay the Advocate’s hand. The Advocate, no matter how much he d
isliked the Greeks, needed their labour and their services, and without them, the city’s fortunes would decline.
“This killer is clever,” said Geoffrey hastily. “I do not believe killing the entire Greek community would serve to rid you of him—he might adopt a disguise and escape. And I am sure the Patriarch would not condone a massacre.”
“The Patriarch does not rule here—I do!” snarled the Advocate, and Geoffrey saw he had touched a raw nerve. “I do not care what the Patriarch condones or does not condone! I am a military leader, and he is a frail churchman bound to the apron strings of the Pope.”
The Patriarch was certainly not frail, and Geoffrey doubted very much if Daimbert were tied to the apron strings of any Pope. If the Advocate underestimated his opponents so blithely, he was bound for a fall. Perhaps the murders were aimed against this weak, vacillating ruler after all, thought Geoffrey. Jerusalem needed a powerful leader in these uncertain times, and the Advocate was proving he was not up to the task.
“I may be mistaken about the Greeks,” said Geoffrey. “I will investigate these poisoned cakes this morning, and I will try to ascertain who Dunstan was trying to blackmail. We do not have sufficient information to justify massacring the Greeks.”
“You have enough information for me,” growled the Advocate. “But, very well, I might be prepared to wait a few days to see what else you might uncover. But do not dally. I could grow impatient.”
With these decisive words, the Advocate turned on his heel and stalked out of the church. Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, and hoped fervently he had not sown a seed of paranoia in the Advocate’s mind that might lead to some violent act against the Greek community. He wondered whether the stress of leadership might be too great for the man, and whether he might be losing his sanity. To suggest a massacre on the grounds of a few unproven suspicions was scarcely the act of a rational man—even a Crusader.
01 - Murder in the Holy City Page 13