01 - Murder in the Holy City

by Simon Beaufort

  Geoffrey balked at the word “reasonably,” but allowed himself to be led down a maze of twisting alleyways in the general direction of the Patriarch’s palace. Roger moved through the shadows like a great cat, almost as light and fleet of foot as the smaller, more agile Geoffrey. They made little noise, and melted into the shadows when they heard or saw someone coming the other way. By unspoken agreement, every so often one would stop and hide while the other went on ahead to see if they were being followed, but there was no suggestion that they were. Geoffrey was often cautious while out at night, but Roger seldom was, and Geoffrey imagined the events of the night must have shaken him indeed to make him depart from his usual confident complacency.

  Eventually, Roger stopped in front of a nondescript house, and looked around carefully before knocking. The door was opened immediately, and the two knights were ushered inside. They were given a quick look over, and then led along a tiled corridor without a word being spoken, and down some stairs to a room in a basement. It was cool, almost chilly, and contained several vats of water that, while they were certainly not freshly poured, were sufficiently clear that Geoffrey could see the bottoms. Just.

  The bath attendant eyed Geoffrey and Roger dubiously, and poured a hefty dose of fragrant oil into the water.

  “We will smell like whores,” muttered Roger disapprovingly, but stripped off his dirty clothes and presented them in an unsavoury bundle to the bath attendant. Geoffrey did likewise, and climbed into the bath, screwing up his face at the agonising coldness.

  “I hate doing this,” he grumbled to Roger, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

  “My father took a bath once,” said Roger conversationally. “He said it was an experience every man should have once in his lifetime.”

  “Why?” asked Geoffrey, peevishly. “To mortify the flesh? To curb physical desires?”

  “So he would know better than to do it again,” said Roger with a roar of laughter that echoed around the basement room and brought the attendant running in alarm.

  “Right,” said Geoffrey, beginning to climb out, “that is enough.”

  “You need to put your head under the water,” said Roger, wallowing like a pig. Geoffrey looked at him in dismay. “Your hair stinks of smoke. You need to get it right under.” He nodded at the attendant, and Geoffrey felt powerful hands begin to push him down. He squirmed and struggled, but the oils made the sides slippery, and he was helpless until the attendant pronounced himself satisfied.

  “Ordeal by fire and water,” he muttered, climbing out onto a floor that was awash.

  While they waited for their clothes to be cleaned, they sat draped in towels, dripping onto the already saturated floor. Geoffrey pretended to be dozing, because he was confused by the information he had collected: he was disturbed by the notion that while Roger attempted to kill Hugh, he had risked his own life to save Geoffrey from the fire. It made no sense. Perhaps Roger was not the one who had killed Marius after all. Perhaps it was Courrances, who had shown his murderous streak by locking Geoffrey in the burning stable. But all knights had murderous streaks, he reasoned, for that was what warfare was all about. Even Geoffrey had been seized with the occasional burst of bloodlust, especially after a long siege or if the opponents were Lorrainers.

  Their clothes were returned washed, brushed, and smelling sweeter than they had done since Geoffrey had set off on Crusade. It was an agreeable feeling, and Geoffrey determined not to wait four years before taking his next bath. Outside, the air was still pleasantly cool, although dawn was not far off. Geoffrey breathed deeply and coughed, aware of the lingering effects of the smoke deep in his lungs.

  As they walked along the street where Melisende’s house was, Geoffrey melted deeper into the shadows, and Roger, unquestioning, followed suit. Lights were burning dimly in her upper and lower windows, although Geoffrey realized it was not unusual for bakers to be up and busy long before dawn. Nevertheless, he was curious, and edged closer to see if he could see through the shutters.

  Fortunately for Geoffrey, there was a split in the wood that afforded him an excellent view of the room within. He saw Melisende and Maria sitting at the table together. Maria had been crying, and there was a vivid bruise on her cheek, while Melisende appeared to be listening to what she was saying. It did not take much imagination to detect that Maria had fled straight from the riot at Abdul’s to the safety and comfort of Melisende’s clean and welcoming home. Maria must have confessed her whereabouts—for Melisende was no fool and would see an immediate connection between Maria’s battered face and a night of fighting at Abdul’s. Which meant, thought Geoffrey, that Maria had probably also told Melisende that she had spoken to him there, and that he had asked her all manner of questions. After all, why should Maria keep his trust when it was no longer necessary for him to keep hers?

  He glanced behind to see what Roger was doing, wondering how he might react to seeing his accomplice spied upon, but Roger was doing exactly what he would normally have done—he was prowling the shadows to make sure they were not observed. Satisfied for the moment, Geoffrey put his eye to the crack again and strained to hear what was being said. But however hard he listened, he could hear only the occasional word, and nothing of any note. The two women seemed to be discussing cakes, for words like “raisin” and “almond” cropped up. Then Maria stood and moved toward the window. Her next words brought a whole new flow of questions racing through Geoffrey’s mind.

  “Well, if you did not poison them, who did?”

  Geoffrey darted back into the shadows as the door opened, and Melisende stepped out, followed by another, taller, person who was swathed in a dark robe. Geoffrey glanced around, and saw that Roger too had made himself invisible. Melisende looked quickly to left and right, and set off up the street, the hooded figure walking beside her.

  Roger spoke softly in his ear. “Shall we follow her?”

  “I will follow her,” whispered Geoffrey. “You stay here and see what Maria does.”

  Roger nodded, although it was too dark for Geoffrey to read his reaction. Was he aware that Geoffrey’s ploy stemmed from a lack of trust, or did he think Geoffrey really considered watching the airheaded Maria important? And more to the point, would he do it, or would he simply follow Geoffrey? Well, we will find out, thought Geoffrey as he trailed after Melisende through the dark streets. As he walked, he tried to remember where he had seen someone with a gait similar to that of Melisende’s companion, but the memory eluded him.

  Their progress was slow, verging on the stately, and Geoffrey began to grow bored. They made their way toward Pharos Street, and then plunged into the labyrinth of alleys that lay to the east between St. Stephen’s Street and the Dome of the Rock. Then it was more difficult to follow them, for the streets were short, and if Geoffrey came too close he ran the risk of being seen, while if he stayed too far behind, he was likely to lose them.

  He realised they were heading for the jumble of alleys near the Gate of Jehoshaphat, where many of the houses had lain empty for a year. Compared to the Jewish Quarter and to those parts of the city occupied by the Greek community, these houses were palatial. But people were superstitious, and it was not easy to forget the slaughter that had occurred there. Geoffrey had heard that renegade soldiers who had deserted from the Crusader armies inhabited sections of the area, and he knew it was also peopled each night by merchants interested in buying and selling items on the black market. But he did not need rumours to tell him that it was a dangerous place to be at any time, especially in the dark.

  They zigzagged deeper and deeper into the maze, and Geoffrey became aware that someone was behind him. He was not surprised, since he had half-expected Roger to follow him. Perhaps Melisende’s tortuous route had even worked to his advantage, he thought, having made it so difficult that Roger had given himself away. At the same time, Geoffrey was not unduly worried by Roger’s presence behind him, since if Roger had meant him harm, he would not have rescued Geoffrey from the fire
.

  Thus, he was wholly unprepared for the attack when it came. The first indication that all was not well was when a stone from a slingshot thudded into the wall above his head. Startled, he stopped and swung round in time to see a swordsman racing toward him with his weapon at the ready. Geoffrey whipped out his own sword and took up a defensive position. He was surprised to note that it was not Roger who bore down on him like a madman.

  He parried the blow that sent shocks down his arm and drew a grunt of pain from his opponent, and he made a quick jab toward the swordsman’s legs before he could recover his balance. The man went down in an inelegant pile of flailing limbs, and Geoffrey turned to face an attack from the other direction. Like the first man, he hurled himself recklessly at Geoffrey, who blocked the hacking swipe and used the momentum to drive the second man stumbling over the first. Then there were two more, not attacking wildly like the first ones, but advancing one from each side, dividing Geoffrey’s attention. When the first man recovered and joined the affray, Geoffrey knew he was in trouble.

  But he had faced worse odds in the past, and had certainly encountered far better swordsmen than these. Deciding his best chances lay in attack rather than in defence, he gathered his strength and went on the offensive. With an ungodly howl learned from the Saracens, he leapt at his attackers with great two-handed sweeps of his sword, driving them before him like leaves before the wind. One of them dropped his weapon and fled in the face of the onslaught, and the others wavered. Sensing their weakness, Geoffrey drove again, breaking into a run as they scattered before him. The first man tripped, and Geoffrey pounced on him, thinking to ask him some questions. He had stretched out a hand to haul him to his feet, when a stone from the slingshot hit him on the shoulder, glancing off his chain mail but causing him to lose his balance.

  He crashed to the ground and saw the swordsman scramble to his feet, weapon in hand. Geoffrey was not prepared to be dispatched by a mere novice, and he lunged for his opponent’s ankles, abandoning his own weapon as he did so. The swordsman fell again, and Geoffrey tried to clamber to his feet. He was aware that the man with the slingshot was directly behind him, and that the other attackers were returning, rallying their courage now that they saw Geoffrey was unarmed. One of them hacked at him, while another hurled himself at Geoffrey’s knees to bring him to the ground. As he struggled to free himself, Geoffrey drew his dagger. But there was a dull ache in his head, and then nothing.

  Geoffrey opened his eyes slowly, aware that hands were moving over him, pulling him this way and that. Gradually, he focused on the face of Melisende, who was searching him expertly, her face a mask of disdain. He was glad he had taken a bath and that his clothes were clean.

  He tried to sit up. Immediately, there was a jangle of weapons, and he found himself staring up at four swords and a cocked bow. It was, he thought, flattering, that even flat on his back and, he ascertained quickly, weaponless, these people regarded him with sufficient awe that they considered it necessary for five of them plus Melisende to guard him. And there was another, staring down at him with a curious mixture of irritation and dislike. Brother Celeste from the Holy Sepulchre. Of course! thought Geoffrey. It was Celeste he had seen limping recently as he had led them to talk to old Father Almaric about the death of Loukas in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

  Contemptuously, Geoffrey pushed the weapons away and sat up, blinking as the world around him tipped and swirled, and then settled again.

  “You smell of that disgusting whorehouse!” hissed Melisende with contempt. “Maria told me you had been there asking questions.”

  Geoffrey doubted she would believe the fragrant smell came from bath oils and his freshly cleaned clothes, so he offered no explanation. He rubbed his aching shoulder, and raised his eyebrows.

  “So now what do we do?”

  “You are so arrogant!” said Melisende furiously. “I should have brained you properly.”

  “That was you, was it?” he asked. “Well, that makes sense. These poor specimens of soldiers could not have done it.”

  The first swordsman moved toward him threateningly. Melisende laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Easy, Adam. He is deliberately trying to antagonise you. Do not give him that satisfaction.”

  Geoffrey had seen Adam before, and he understood perfectly well the young man’s passion. It was Adam who had been ousted from Maria’s room at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace to make way for Geoffrey.

  Melisende turned back to her captive. “They would have bested you eventually,” she said, eyeing him with the utmost disdain.

  “How?” he asked incredulously. “They had run away! They only came back when they saw I was unarmed. And incidentally, hitting someone on the head from behind when he is outnumbered six to one does not constitute a fair fight.”

  “And since when have Normans ever engaged in fair fights?” she asked coolly.

  So there they were again, back at her favourite topic. Perhaps Maria was right about Melisende’s husband, because something had to account for her abnormal hostility toward Geoffrey. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat, knowing this was one battle he could not win.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded, holding up the red ruby ring that the Patriarch had given him in payment for his services. Geoffrey glanced up at the sky and saw it was still dark. He could not have been stunned for more than a few moments, but it had been sufficient time to allow her to search him quite thoroughly. The ring had been in a pouch sewn into the inside of his surcoat. In fact, Geoffrey had forgotten it was there. He had been meaning to ask Helbye, who was astute in such matters, to sell it or exchange it for something more useful—Geoffrey found rings interfered with his sword grip, and he never wore them himself.

  “I took it from a church,” he replied. He could hardly tell her the Patriarch had given it to him in payment for an investigation into murders that Melisende may well have committed, and yet his reply held a grain of truth—Daimbert represented the Church in Jerusalem.

  Her eyes narrowed. “That has an element of honesty about it,” she said bitterly. “For no Norman would hesitate to steal from a house of God. Yet, I know you are lying.”

  He doubted she would have believed him even if he had felt compelled to be straightforward with her. And there was a certain justice in the situation, given that he had been equally sceptical of her honesty at various times in the past.

  “We will take him with us,” she said to the swordsmen. “Guard him well. You have seen what he is capable of. He fights like the Devil himself.”

  “The Devil against the angels,” he muttered, pulling his arm away from Adam, who made a nervous attempt to hold him.

  “We cannot take him!” protested Celeste. “He will be a hindrance all the way. And what will we do with him when we get there?”

  “Well, we certainly cannot dispatch him here,” said Melisende. “This place may have an abandoned feel to it, but, believe me, there are people watching our every move even as we speak. They will not interfere with us as long as we do nothing to bring attention to these alleys. But it would be disastrous to everyone who uses this place to have a knight killed here. The area would be seething with the Advocate’s men for weeks, and all business would have to cease. No, Brother, I am afraid we have no choice but to take him with us.”

  “We could kill him here and take the body with us,” suggested Adam enthusiastically.

  Melisende considered. “No,” she said eventually. “He is too heavy. It is better to have him walking.”

  Geoffrey was far from reassured by her words, and it was small comfort to know that the only reason he was not being murdered there and then was because someone—possibly involved in even more sinister dealings than Melisende and her companions—might see. He wondered whether this was what had happened to Guido, John and the monks—had they been taken to a different area to be dispatched quickly by a dagger in the back?

  “If you attempt to run, my archer will shoot you down,” s
aid Melisende, coldly. “Regardless of who sees. So please yourself. It makes no difference to me.”

  She turned and flounced away, leaving the jittery swordsmen and the archer to bring Geoffrey. He was not unduly worried about the archer, for the man was using entirely the wrong arrow tips to penetrate chain mail, and Geoffrey could see his bow was poorly strung. But regardless, Geoffrey would not run—not from fear of the bowman, but because it was very difficult for a knight to run at speed for any distance wearing heavy chain mail and surcoat. He could manage quick bursts over a short distance, and he could maintain a reasonable marching pace for miles, but he would never be able to outrun his guards.

  Melisende led them through yet more streets, until Geoffrey was completely disoriented. He glanced up at the stars to gain some sense of direction, and he knew they were moving generally in a southeasterly direction, but it did him no good, since he did not know exactly from where they had started. He wondered where Roger was: Geoffrey had made what was now an obvious error of judgement in assuming it had been Roger who was following him, and he was angry with himself for not paying more attention.

  Finally, Melisende halted in front of a shabby house and opened the door with a key. Inside, she kindled a lamp, opened a door that led to some damp stairs, and led the way down. The first flight was wooden, then they turned and descended another of stone. Soon, they stood in a cellarlike room with walls that glistened with water and green slime. To one side lay a long tunnel that sloped downward at a sharp angle. At its steepest points, there were rough steps hewn into the rock, but for the most part it was smooth. At the sight of its black, gaping maw, Geoffrey felt a cold sweat break out all over him, and he was seized by a rising panic.

  Melisende lit two more lamps, handed them to her men, and gestured for Celeste to precede them down the tunnel. Geoffrey swallowed hard and clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. He recalled nightmares from his childhood of dark tunnels like this, swelling to fill the entire room and sucking everything down to a bottomless pit. And he remembered even more vividly helping to dig a tunnel to undermine the walls of a castle in France. The walls had collapsed while Geoffrey was inside the tunnel, and he still had nightmares about the long hours spent in the dark, with water rising steadily around him and the air turning foul. He would wake after these dreams feeling weak with a helpless terror that was never equalled by the anticipation or aftermath of even the most ferocious of battles.