“Sir Hugh was yelling at Tom Wolfram that the woman could still have been useful,” called the prisoner helpfully. “But Wolfram said it was because Maria had been captured that they were forced to act sooner than they wanted. What did he mean?”
“Can you ride?” asked Geoffrey. All but one of the soldiers nodded. “Then come with me, and you will find out.”
As Roger fumbled with the keys to release them, Geoffrey knelt next to Ned Fletcher and eased his twisted limbs into a more decent position. He took a last look at the man who had been with him since his youth, and stood abruptly, anger seething inside him. Roger followed him up the stairs and waylaid a monk to see about removing the bodies to the chapel.
“We will get Hugh for this, lad,” said Roger, pulling on his gauntlets. Geoffrey nodded wordlessly and surveyed the flurry of activity in the bailey. He had perhaps fifteen knights and about thirty soldiers, hurriedly rounded up from the camp within the citadel walls. Only those who could ride had been chosen, because the little cavalcade would never catch up with Hugh with foot soldiers trailing behind. Geoffrey nodded with satisfaction when he saw that his three best archers were among the numbers.
He strode over to his own horse, already saddled and with his spare sword and mace strapped to its sides. He yelled to Helbye to check that all the water bags were full, since he was not going to ride after Hugh only to be thwarted by the intense heat of the desert—even if the men could be made to go short, the horses could not if they were to be of any use. As he swung himself up into the saddle, Courrances and four of his Hospitallers rode through the gates. With them was d’Aumale.
Courrances surveyed the scene in astonishment. “Another foray into the desert?” he queried. “Two within a day, and with such a show of force?”
Roger said nothing, and Geoffrey wondered whether Courrances were a part of Hugh’s plan to kill the Advocate. But if the Advocate died, then Courrances would lose the power he had so carefully amassed. Geoffrey was debating how truthful to be, when d’Aumale spoke up.
“There have been a number of threats to the Advocate’s life,” he said. Courrances shot him a foul look, but d’Aumale went on. “He read me a letter from some monk outlining details of a plan to kill him. Is that what this is about?”
“D’Aumale!” shouted Geoffrey, exasperated. “Why did you not tell me this earlier? Much time might have been saved, and Ned Fletcher might not be dead!”
“Because I have only just been told you have been investigating these murders on behalf of the Advocate,” said d’Aumale with a disgusted look at Courrances. “Warner and I were under the impression you were doing Tancred’s bidding. And since, under the right circumstances, Tancred might benefit very greatly from the Advocate’s death, we did not think to confide in you! Had we known, we would most certainly have told you about this monk’s letter.”
“This monk was Sir Guido of Rimini,” said Geoffrey, exasperated. “He signed himself Brother Salvatori because he was planning to take the cowl.”
D’Aumale blanched and glowered at Courrances again. “Why did you not tell us sooner that Sir Geoffrey was working for the Advocate? We might have joined forces and averted all this!”
“Joining forces would not have been wise,” came Courances’s oily voice. “And you should not be speaking with him now. Geoffrey Mappestone is Tancred’s man. How do you know it is not Tancred’s agents who are plotting to kill the Advocate, so that Tancred might be ruler of Jerusalem? Or Bohemond,” he added with a glance at Roger.
Roger bristled. “Lord Bohemond would not stoop to such depths,” he declared, although everyone, including Roger, knew perfectly well that he would. Bohemond stood to gain more than anyone from the Advocate’s demise. And Tancred would benefit too, and the Patriarch, and possibly even the Advocate’s brother Baldwin, away in the Kingdom of Edessa.
“I imagined the Greeks were behind it all,” continued d’Aumale urgently, ignoring Courrances. “Meanwhile, Courrances believed it was a Saracen plot; Warner, who is in the hospital with a fever, thought the plot had to be Bohemond’s or Tancred’s. And then, who should begin asking questions and be seen in curious places—but you two and Sir Hugh.”
“Hugh was never with us,” said Roger. “Geoffrey and me went alone.”
“I saw Sir Hugh several times in the Greek Quarter,” said Courrances. His face became sharp. “He has gone, hasn’t he—to Jaffa? He is on his way to murder the Advocate!”
“The evidence is far from clear,” said Geoffrey, wanting time to think it out. Helbye gave a shout to say that all was ready. Geoffrey took the reins and wheeled his horse round to face the gates, raising his arm to order his men to prepare to leave.
“Wait!” said Courrances. “We are coming with you!”
The four Hospitallers and d’Aumale, like Courrances, were already fully armoured. They prepared to follow.
“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey, pulling on the reins to control his restless horse. “We do not want to be found in compromising positions with dead whores in brothels, or killed in burning stables.”
Courrances blanched. “I was mistaken.”
“You were indeed,” said Geoffrey, standing in his stirrups to cast a professional eye over his troops as they arranged themselves in a thin column, two abreast.
“I drew a conclusion based on the evidence presented. I was wrong to have accepted it so readily,” said Courrances, lunging and grabbing Geoffrey’s surcoat. “Several days ago, while you were in the desert, Hugh told me that he was concerned that you were involved in something that might prove detrimental to the Advocate. He told me you were working in league with the Patriarch. I made enquiries and found it to be true—both you and Roger are in the pay of the Patriarch. Hugh was plausible—acting as a grieving friend who was deeply shocked at a betrayal of loyalties. I took him at face value and arranged the business at Abdul’s when he told me you were planning to go there. As it turned out, the entire thing was a fiasco, and d’Aumale could have been killed when he was knocked down by one of the horses you let out, which was racing down the street. I have apologised to him, and now I apologise to you. But Hugh duped me every bit as much as he did you.”
“Not quite,” muttered Geoffrey bitterly. “And was it you who left the dagger and pig’s heart in my chamber?”
Courrances nodded. “I had to make you feel as though it was in your own interests to investigate the murders for me. Had you declined to take up the case, I had planned to leave similar items in the rooms of Roger and Hugh. But you agreed—far more readily than I had expected—so readily, in fact, that I became suspicious, and began to entertain the notion that you were the killer. After all, no one was murdered in the two weeks you were out on desert patrol. Then the minute you step back in the city, John was killed. And then Hugh came, and told me his reasons for suspecting you …”
His voice trailed off. “But a pig’s heart?” said Roger, with a shake of his great head.
Courrances shrugged and then gave a rare smile. “To begin with, I thought all this was the work of Moslem fanatics. I left a pig’s heart to point you in their direction, since the pig is considered unclean by them.” He saw Geoffrey’s bemused expression. “Too obscure, I see.”
Geoffrey’s men were ready, and the horses, sensing the excitement, were restless and prancing. The bailey was filled with low clouds of dust kicked up by their hooves, and already Geoffrey was beginning to bake inside his armour. He donned his metal helmet, with the long nosepiece, and signalled for the men to begin filing out.
“We must come with you!” Courrances insisted, watching the mounted soldiers ride past. “I saw Hugh’s force when it left earlier. He has at least twice the men that you have. You need us!”
Geoffrey made a quick decision; it was in Courrances’s interest to save the Advocate, and the Hospitaller was right in that Hugh probably had a considerably larger force than had Geoffrey. The addition of Courrances, his Hospitallers, and d’Aumale would provide much-n
eeded reinforcements to his small army.
“Come on, then!” he yelled, clinging with his knees as his horse reared, impatient with the delay.
Roger looked at him aghast. “What are you doing? We do not want Hospitallers with us!”
“First, it is better to have Courrances where we can see him,” said Geoffrey in a low voice, watching the warrior-monk run to his own mount and give terse orders to his men. “And second, we are going to need all the help we can get. If Hugh succeeds, Bohemond will be held responsible whether Hugh is acting on his orders or not. And I suspect he is not, because Bohemond is too far away to take advantage of an empty throne if Hugh strikes now. If Hugh murders the Advocate, we will need to combine all our forces to prevent the city from plunging into civil war. And if we fight among ourselves, the Saracens will be on us in an instant. Believe me, Roger, we need Courrances just as much as he needs us.”
The horsemen thundered down the winding path that led down through the Judean Hills to the coastal plain and Jaffa, a prosperous city that was some thirty miles distant as the crow flew. The predominant colour of the countryside around Jerusalem was a pale buff-yellow, which became deeper when bathed in gold by the setting sun. It was midmorning, but the heat was intense, making the scrubby hills shimmer and shift. Here and there, small desert plants eked a parched existence from the arid soil, providing a meagre diet for the small herds of goats that roamed the area with their Bedouin masters.
Dust rose in choking clouds under the horses’ feet, so that the soldiers not at the front of the cavalcade were blinded by it. Geoffrey felt it mingling with the sweat that ran down his face, and forming gritty layers between skin, chain mail, and surcoat. The dust worked its way into his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, so that his whole world seemed to comprise nothing but the thud of hooves on baked soil and the bubble of rising grit that engulfed him.
He spurred his horse, so that he rode level with Roger, screwing up his eyes against the glare to squint ahead for any sign of Hugh. They reached a tiny oasis, where gnarled olive trees huddled around a shallow pool of murky water, churned to mud by the feet of the animals that came to drink. Curious Bedouin watched the horsemen from the shade of the trees, and exchanged looks of mystification as to what could be so important as to warrant such frenzied activity in the desert heat. With bemused shrugs, they went back to their storytelling and their gossip.
Beyond the oasis, the path sloped upward and rounded a bend, providing a view of the countryside that stretched like a blanket ahead. Geoffrey reined in, clinging with his knees as his agitated horse reared and kicked. An excited bark from below told him that the dog had followed them, although how the fat, lazy beast had kept up, Geoffrey could not imagine.
“There!” he yelled, pointing.
Far in the distance was another group of horsemen, strung out in a long black line across the yellow floor of the desert. There were, Geoffrey estimated quickly, at least a hundred of them, riding toward Jaffa. Hugh had no reason to suspect that Geoffrey had escaped and raised a counterforce, but he must have missed Roger from his troops, and was making good, but not furious, time on his journey.
Courrances reined in next to him, narrowing his eyes at the distant black dots of Hugh’s army. “A hundred and twenty, I would say,” he said. He looked at Geoffrey’s men. “And we number perhaps fifty.” He looked back at Geoffrey, fixing him with his expressionless pale blue eyes, and spurred his horse after his Hospitallers.
“He is right,” said Roger. “This will be no well-matched battle, Geoff.”
“But Hugh does not know we are coming,” said Geoffrey. “We have the element of surprise.”
“Do not fool yourself,” said Roger. “He knows all right. He has left too many clues behind him for someone not to follow—if not you and me, then Courrances.”
Geoffrey did not answer, and he set off again as fast as he dared without destroying the horses. The main road went steadily west, heading for the ancient settlement of Latrun, before continuing northwest to Ramle and then on to Jaffa. Geoffrey knew this region well, having taken many scouting parties out to scour the desert for Saracen bandits, and he knew that by bearing farther north, he could cut in a straight line across the desert and rejoin the road at the tiny settlement of Ramle. Such a shortcut would serve the dual purpose of slicing several miles from their journey, and of masking their pursuit from Hugh and his men.
He yelled his plan to Roger, who grinned in savage delight. D’Aumale forced his way through the milling soldiers, his face tight with tension.
“If we cut directly across the desert, we might yet intercept Hugh,” Geoffrey explained.
“Then what are you waiting for?” yelled d’Aumale, spurring his horse off in entirely the wrong direction. Geoffrey and Roger exchanged amused glances before kicking their own mounts into action, and the chase was on once more.
The route across the desert was not as easy as that provided by the main road. It was rocky, and deeply scarred with great cracks caused as the land shrank away from the ferocity of the sun’s heat. The soldiers were forced to negotiate steep ravines caused by the winter and spring rains, when great sheets of water fell briefly on the dry land, only to run off it again in churning brown torrents that headed straight for the sea. But despite the rough terrain, they made good time and lost only two of their number due to lame horses. Geoffrey dispatched them back to the citadel to see if reinforcements might be raised. Geoffrey’s dog panted along with them, easily able to maintain the slower pace forced by crossing the open country.
There was a tiny spring, little more than a muddy puddle, that Geoffrey knew, about halfway along their route. He called a halt and ordered men and horses to drink—but sparingly, for he knew the horses would be unable to run with overfull stomachs. Then they were off again, refreshed, and ready for the gruelling second leg of their race across the furnace of the desert.
Geoffrey felt his face burn and his head pound as he became hotter and hotter. Beneath him, his horse began to wheeze from the dust, and the dog, still trotting at his side, had its tongue out so far it was almost scraping the ground. Another rider fell behind as his horse began to limp, and Geoffrey wondered whether, even if they did catch up with Hugh, they would be able to fight him. For fight Hugh would. The sardonic knight had no choice now but to follow the path he had taken to its bitter end. Even if he gave himself up, the Advocate would hang him as a traitor.
Geoffrey forced thought from his mind, and concentrated on guiding his horse around the great lumps of shattered rock that strewed the desert floor, and urging it to leap across the maze of ravines that gouged through the baked earth.
Eventually, after the sun had reached its zenith and was beginning to dip into late afternoon, they saw a thin line of green in the distance, and Geoffrey knew Ramle was in reach. The sun cast shadows across the desert that were growing steadily longer, and there would soon be very little daylight left. Geoffrey urged his men on with shouts of encouragement that made his voice hoarse. But they needed little urging, for they too had seen Ramle on the horizon and sensed battle was imminent.
A dry riverbed cut through the desert toward Ramle, and Geoffrey led his men down into it. The bed was relatively smooth, and so they were able to pick up speed. And there were banks on either side that would shield them from sight, so that Hugh would not see them coming. As they drew nearer to the trees, Geoffrey raised his hand to bring the main body to a halt, and while he and the knights continued to advance at a more sedate pace. Who knew what precautions Hugh might have taken, and the last thing Geoffrey needed was to ride headlong into an ambush. D’Aumale began to speak, but Geoffrey silenced him with a glare, and the gentle pad of hooves and the occasional clink of metal were the only sounds as they rode forward.
They reached the flat-roofed houses on the outskirts of Ramle, which had been their target. The villagers, seeing the advance of heavily armed knights, had already fled into the desert, abandoning homes, belongings, and livestoc
k. Geoffrey saw several of the men take acquisitive looks at the houses, and knew he would be hard-pressed to prevent them from looting later. Not that there would be much to take, for the houses were poor and the livestock scrawny. Even Geoffrey’s dog, infamous killer of the citadel chickens and goats, appeared uninterested and slunk away to find somewhere shady to recover from its exertions.
An old woman, too frail to run with the others, watched their approach with a mixture of resignation and fear. She saw Geoffrey looking at her, and pulled a thin, black shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if she imagined it might protect her from him.
“Greetings, mother!” he called in Arabic. “We mean no harm to you.”
She gaped at him, startled by the curious notion of a Crusader knight speaking her own tongue, albeit falteringly.
“Can you tell me how long it has been since the other soldiers passed this way?”
She recovered herself and came toward him, her toothless jaws working in time with her doddering footsteps.
“No soldiers have passed this way today,” she said when she reached him.
Geoffrey’s hopes soared. “No group of horsemen? More than a hundred of them?”
She shook her head. “No.” She gestured to where the road wound through the grove of olive trees, toward the main settlement of Ramle and then on through the desert to Jaffa and the sea. “You would still see the dust if they had passed recently.”
Geoffrey saw that was probably true. So they were ahead of Hugh! The fair-haired knight and his retinue of traitors must have been making slower time than Geoffrey had imagined, perhaps considering that no force large enough to confront them could be raised so quickly. So now, despite his inferior numbers, Geoffrey had the advantage.
01 - Murder in the Holy City Page 27