by Hight, Jack
He walked south and turned left on to David Street. It angled steeply uphill, and John mounted a series of steps as he passed the shops built into the southern wall of the Hospitaller complex. ‘Sacred oil, my good sir?’ one of the merchants called to John in French, mistaking him for a pilgrim. He held out a lead flask decorated with images of the saints on one side, and the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem on the other. ‘It will bring you luck. No? A reliquary pendant, perhaps? It contains a splinter of the true cross! Or perhaps a pilgrim’s badge to commemorate your visit to the Holy City?’ John kept walking, and the merchant turned his attention to another passer-by.
Past the shops, John reached the square where David Street intersected with Zion Street and paused. To his left, moneychangers sat before their scales, framed by imposing armed men. A few pilgrims were changing their ducats, livres, siliquae, perperi and obols for the bezants and deniers of the Kingdom. Opposite the moneychangers, labourers loitered on the southern edge of the square, hoping to be hired for some menial task. Ahead, the dome of the Templum Domini rose above the city, its gold-clad surface glinting in the morning light. The sight of it always made John smile. The priests told pilgrims that it was the Lord’s Temple from the days of Christ, but Father William had confided to John that this new temple had been built by the Saracens a half-millennium ago.
John’s musings were interrupted by a rumble from his hungry stomach. He walked north into the Street of Herbs, a narrow lane covered over with vaulted stonework and lined with shops selling spices and fresh fruits. The pilgrims who had spent the night asleep on the stone benches between the shops were just rising. Native Christian servants hurried from shop to shop, purchasing food for their masters’ households. Robed priests and knights in armour stood out amongst them. John shouldered his way through the crowd to the stall of an olive-skinned native Christian who was busy placing out baskets of figs, apples and mangos.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Tiv,’ he greeted him in Arabic.
The merchant smiled, showing yellowing teeth. ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, John. What can I do for you?’
‘These mangos look good.’
‘The best in all Jerusalem. Only two fals.’
John handed over the copper coins and plucked a mango from one of the baskets. He took a bite of the golden, pulpy fruit and grunted in satisfaction as the juice ran down his chin. He gestured to the overflowing baskets. ‘Expecting a crowd, Tiv?’
‘In four days it will be the feast of liberation, celebrating the capture of Jerusalem by the Frankish dogs.’ Tiv spat to the side as he placed another basket of fruit on the table. ‘The festivities, may God piss on them, always bring a crowd.’
‘May you profit from them.’ John moved on, eating his mango as he walked. He left the covered street and strolled through an open square filled with clucking chickens and feathers floating on the morning breeze. The powerful smell of fish filled his nose as he entered the fish market, which sat in the shade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. John was pushing his way through the crowd when he spotted a dark-haired woman at a stall just ahead of him. From behind, with her long hair hanging to her waist and her petite, voluptuous figure, she looked just like Zimat. She was dressed in a close-fitting white caftan and niqab, a veil which covered all her face but for her eyes. John caught a glimpse of her hands as she passed money to the merchant; they were the golden colour of the sands north of Damascus, just like Zimat’s. John felt his pulse quicken. Then the woman turned and their eyes met. It was not Zimat. The woman lowered her gaze and walked away.
John cursed himself for a fool as he continued on his way. Of course it had not been Zimat. No Saracens were allowed in the city. And why would she come? She did not even know he was alive. He wondered where she was now, if she had married again, but shook the thoughts from his mind. It did not matter. He would be made a priest that very morning.
A trickle of sweat ran down John’s back as he knelt on the stone floor of the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and listened to the patriarch pray. The church was hot due to the dense crowd that had come to hear Sunday Mass, and the priestly garments that John wore offered no relief. His alb, a loose white tunic of linen, was belted at his waist with a cord of red silk. Over it was his chasuble, a sleeveless, suffocating garment of heavily embroidered white silk. A rectangle of linen covered his head and fell to his shoulders on either side. Over his left shoulder hung a stole of red silk with white crosses embroidered at the ends. The priest’s maniple, a band of red silk embroidered with gold, was tied to his left forearm. It seemed strange, sacrilegious even, to wear the priestly vestments. Yet in only a few moments he would be a priest. More than that, he would be a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most sacred place in all Christendom, built on the site where Jesus had been buried and risen again.
Each canon received a monthly stipend, and in return they were to live in the dormitory, eat in common and pray the canonical hours: Matins, which took place some three hours before dawn; Lauds shortly before sunrise; Prime in the early morning hours; Terce, Sext, and None over the course of the day; Vespers at sunset; and Compline just before bed. John would live at the church, but William had told him that he would have a vicar to take his place at prayers. Most of the canons did. John would thus be free to continue his work at the palace. There were only two rules that he absolutely had to obey: he must attend the services during Advent and Lent; and he must not be absent from the church for more than three months at a time without dispensation from the patriarch.
John had met the patriarch – called Amalric, like the king – in person for the first time only a few days previously. It was the patriarch’s duty to interview any candidate to become a canon. Amalric was one of the four men who had condemned John to crucifixion when he first arrived in Jerusalem, but the patriarch seemed to have no recollection of him. He had been seated at a small table in his private quarters, carving bites of meat from a roasted shoulder of pork.
‘I am John of Tatewic, Your Beatitude,’ John had declared.
The patriarch had not looked up from his dinner. ‘Hmmm?’
‘The candidate to be named to the vacant canon’s seat, Your Beatitude.’
Amalric had put down his knife and fork and squinted at John. ‘Come forward.’
John had crossed the room, knelt before the patriarch and kissed his ring. Amalric waved John to his feet. After examining him for a moment, the hollow-cheeked old man had gone back to his dinner. ‘How old are you?’ he asked between bites.
‘Thirty-three.’
‘And of good blood?’
‘My father was a thane – a lord – in England, as was his father and his father before him.’
‘And why do you wish to be a priest?’
‘To serve God, Your Beatitude.’
‘Hmmm.’ The patriarch made a sucking sound as he worked at the bits of meat stuck between his teeth. ‘I owe the King a favour, and William speaks well of you. That is enough for me. I will see that the Chapter approves you, John of Tatewic.’
John had kissed the patriarch’s ring and departed.
His attention returned to the cathedral. Amalric was still reading from the prayer book held open by an attendant. ‘O God … holiness … pour … this servant of yours … the gift of your blessing.’ He skipped entire paragraphs, reading only a word here and a phrase there. John could not tell if Amalric was simply ignorant of Latin, like so many churchmen, or if he were deliberately rushing through the service. Such things were common enough. After all, most of the congregation knew no Latin. They would not know the difference.
Amalric droned on, but John paid little attention. His scalp had begun to itch where it had been tonsured – a patch the size of a communion wafer shaved off. It was all he could do not to reach up and scratch it. He forced himself to focus on something else and found himself thinking of Zimat. Even as his hands were anointed with oil and bound, even as he stood beside the patriarch and helped him to c
elebrate Mass, his thoughts kept returning to her, her dark eyes and hair, the soft curve of her cheek. He had told Amalric that he was joining the priesthood to serve God, and he was. But more than that, he was joining for Zimat, so that he would not have to marry another.
When the Eucharist had been celebrated and the Creed recited, the patriarch returned to his throne, and John knelt before him. This was the key moment of the ceremony. John placed his folded hands between those of the patriarch, who spoke in a low voice: ‘Do you promise me and my successors reverence and obedience?’
John hesitated. If he agreed, he would become the patriarch’s man, just as he had once been Yusuf’s man, and Reynald’s before that. He swallowed, and said loudly, ‘I promise.’
‘As canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, do you promise to live a life of chastity, consecrated to God and without private property?’
‘I promise.’
The patriarch, still holding John’s hands in his own, leaned forward and kissed John on the right cheek. ‘The peace of the Lord be always with you, my son.’
‘Amen.’
‘My dear son, ponder well the order you have taken and the burden laid on your shoulders. Strive to lead a holy and devout life, and to please almighty God, that you may obtain His grace. May He in His kindness deign to bestow it on you.’
The patriarch released his hands. John rose and went to sit in his choir stall as a full member of the chapter of canons. He had come to the Holy Land years ago searching for redemption, and surely he had found it. His life now belonged to God.
John sat in the chancellery, a small room dominated by an oak desk covered in scrolls. He unrolled one of them. It was a list of tax revenues from the town of Ramlah. Keeping track of taxes and landholdings was not so interesting as John’s work tutoring Prince Baldwin, but he had proved adept at it. He picked up a quill with ink-stained fingers. He dipped it and began to enter numbers from the scroll into a leather-bound register. He heard the slap of sandals on the stone floor and looked up to see William enter.
John arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were with Baldwin.’
‘I have been called to audience with the King. You will tutor the Prince.’
‘Shall I teach him swordplay?’ John asked hopefully.
William shook his head. ‘Arabic.’
John found Prince Baldwin in his quarters, playing with two wooden figures under the watchful eyes of a nurse. The prince was three, the same age John’s son Ubadah had been the last time John had seen him. Like Ubadah, Baldwin was a handsome child, with fat cheeks and straight, sandy-brown hair. But Baldwin’s eyes were green, not dark. Though hardly more than a babe, he had already shown himself to be a clever boy. John spent several hours a day with him, and the boy was absorbing Arabic with surprising rapidity.
‘It is time for the Prince’s lesson,’ John said. The nurse departed, and John sat on the floor across from Baldwin. ‘Arabic today. Let us begin by seeing how much you remember. Sword.’
‘Saif,’ Baldwin repeated in Arabic.
‘Good. Lamp.’
‘Chiragh.’
‘Very good!’ But the child had ceased paying attention. A clatter of horses’ hooves had come through the open window. Baldwin flew to it, and John also rose to look down on the paved courtyard. Four knights in mail were dismounting. With them was a darker man in a white caftan.
‘A Saracen?’ Baldwin asked. Muslims were forbidden in the city, and this might well have been the first one the prince had ever seen.
John nodded. He watched until the men entered the palace, then returned to his place on the floor. ‘Come, Prince. We should continue.’
Baldwin crossed his arms over his chest. ‘No!’
‘Sit!’ John snapped, and Baldwin began to cry, his angelic face twisted into an ugly mask of anguish. ‘Stop it. Men do not cry,’ John scolded, but this only seemed to make matters worse. Baldwin began to wail. Desperate for some way to distract the child, John removed the gold cross from around his neck and set it on the floor before Baldwin. ‘Look at the pretty gold.’ The boy quieted instantly. He reached for the cross but froze, his eyes fixed on the door.
‘Good day, young Prince.’
John turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway. She was about John’s age. Her tunic fit snugly at the waist, revealing an athletic figure. Judging from the rings on her fingers and her elaborate white tunic, heavily embroidered with gold thread, she was a lady of some importance, yet John had never seen her at court.
‘My lady,’ he said as he replaced the cross about his neck and stood. The woman stepped into the room and pushed up her veil. She had a pleasant oval face, green eyes and full lips. A strand of hair the colour of barley escaped from her headdress to fall in curls down to her bosom. Her attention was fixed upon Baldwin, but then she noticed John staring and smiled. Her teeth were even and white.
‘We have not met, Father,’ the lady said in the accented French of someone who had been raised in the Holy Land. ‘You are new at court?’
‘Yes, my lady. My name is John of Tatewic, canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and secretary to the chancellor William.’ John bowed.
‘Tatewic?’ The lady arched a thin eyebrow. ‘You are English? How do you come to be at the king’s court, in the company of the king’s son?’
‘Amalric has instructed me to teach the boy Arabic and the ways of the Saracens.’
The lady smiled slyly. ‘You only answered half my question, John of Tatewic. Never mind. I am sure you have your reasons.’ She looked beyond him to Baldwin, who had wandered away to play, and suddenly it was as if John did not exist. She stepped past him and gathered her long tunic up with one hand as she sat before the boy. He ignored her, busy playing with a knight and a mamluk, both carved from wood.
‘Do you recognize me, Baldwin?’ she asked. The prince did not look up from his toys. ‘Is that a knight? Your father perhaps?’ Baldwin’s only response was to turn his back to the lady.
‘I am sorry,’ John told her. ‘He is sometimes shy around strangers.’ This was a lie. Baldwin was a gregarious child, always curious and quick to smile. John had never seen him act this way.
‘He shall have to overcome that. After all, he will be king one day.’ The lady stood and turned towards John. For a moment she looked upset – her lips pressed together and lines radiating from the corners or her mouth. Then the lines vanished. ‘Tell me, John, what do you think of King Amalric?’
‘He is a good man.’
‘Yes, he tries to be.’
John frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
The lady did not answer. She bent down and placed a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. The boy froze. She gently kissed him on the top of his head and went to the door. She stopped and looked back. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, John of Tatewic. I hope to see you again.’
‘As you wish, my lady. But tell me, what is your name?’
‘Agnes.’ Her eyes flicked to Baldwin and then back to John. ‘Agnes de Courtenay.’ And with that, she was gone.
A moment later William entered the room. ‘Who was that? You are a priest now, John,’ he said with mock severity. ‘You are not to entertain strange women.’
‘She is a lady. Agnes de Courtenay.’
‘Agnes?’ William’s eyes opened wide.
‘You know her?’
‘She is the King’s former wife.’ William lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Baldwin’s mother. What was she doing here? Did she come to see the child?’ John shrugged. William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful of her, John.’
‘She seemed pleasant enough.’
‘She has been forbidden from seeing Baldwin, and for good reason.’
John raised his eyebrows, but William did not elaborate.
‘Now come. We have important business.’ William raised his voice. ‘Nurse!’ The nurse entered, and William led John from the room. ‘An ambassador has come from Egypt,’ William said as they headed across the palace.<
br />
‘What does he want?’
‘That is for you to find out.’
‘Me?’
‘You know their ways better than any of us, John. I want you to make him feel comfortable.’ William stopped before a wooden door. ‘And I need to know if he can be trusted.’
William pushed the door open to reveal a small room. A single window looked out on the courtyard of the palace, and through it streamed sunlight, illuminating a broad oak table with four chairs. The Egyptian ambassador had ignored the chairs and sat cross-legged on the thick carpet. He was simply dressed, his white cotton caftan contrasting with his dark skin, the same deep-brown colour as the table. John saw at once that he was no warrior: his face was soft and his hands plump. He rose as John entered.
John inclined his head. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, sayyid.’
‘Wa-salaam alaykum,’ the ambassador replied. His voice was soft and his Egyptian accent strange.
John placed his hand on his chest. ‘My name is John—Juwan,’ he added, giving it the Arabic pronunciation.
‘I am Al-Khlata, secretary to Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’
John gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit. King Amalric has asked me to ensure that you are comfortable.’
‘I have everything I need,’ Al-Khlata said as he sat on the carpet.
‘You shall have fruit and cool water. I insist.’ John looked to William, who nodded and hurried off. John sat on the carpet across from Al-Khlata. ‘You must have travelled far.’
‘Across Al-Naqab,’ Al-Khlata agreed. His hazel eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘How do you come to speak our language so well?’
‘I spent several years at the court of Nur ad-Din.’