by Hight, Jack
The captain studied him a moment longer, then pointed to John’s mace. ‘Leave your weapon here.’ John handed the mace over, and the guard stepped aside. ‘You’re late, abbot. You had best hurry. First door on your left.’
John went inside and paused beside the door to the council chamber. He could hear raised voices. Despite the pain in his back, he straightened and walked in with a determined stride. A dozen men were gathered around a table. John recognized most of them: Guy and his brother Amalric, the constable; Reynald and his son-in-law Humphrey of Toron, a fat-cheeked young man with an unfortunate overbite and weak chin; Raymond of Tripoli, a slender, straight-backed man with dark hair and a swarthy complexion; and beside him taciturn, balding Reginald of Sidon and Balian of Ibelin, a handsome man with a thin nose and wide, dark eyes. The men fell silent as John entered the room.
‘Saxon?’ Reynald asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
Guy frowned. ‘That man should be in prison. Guards!’
Two men in mail entered the room, but Raymond and Balian stepped between them and John. ‘Let him be,’ Raymond said. ‘We need every sword we can muster.’
‘I have brought one hundred and fifty sergeants,’ John said.
Reynald’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And whose men are these?’
‘Mine. I have been elected abbot of Mount Sion.’
‘On whose authority?’ Guy demanded.
‘The King.’
Reynald snorted. ‘The King is too ill even to feed himself.’
‘Then John’s election is nothing short of a miracle,’ Balian declared in a soft voice that matched his delicate features. ‘All the more reason to welcome him.’ He looked to Guy. ‘Unless you wish to lose his men.’
Guy’s forehead creased. He rubbed the hilt of his dagger with his thumb as he tried to come to a decision.
John met his eyes. Perhaps this was his opportunity to eliminate the regent, and to do so in a way that would not stain his own honour. ‘I have been found guilty of no crimes, my lord. If you wish, I will undergo trial by combat against my accusers to prove my innocence. I believe that means I would fight you.’
‘That will not be necessary. You may stay.’
‘But he is a traitor!’ Reynald protested. ‘He—’
‘My brother said he may stay!’ Amalric roared. ‘He rules here, not you!’
John could feel the tension in the room. Balian cleared his throat and turned to John. ‘We were discussing strategy. Six days ago, Saladin’s army crossed the Jordan and sacked Beisan. They made camp here –’ he pointed to the map on the table – ‘at the Spring of Goliath. We marched to the spring and forced him to withdraw to Mount Tabor.’
‘Where he sacked the monastery and surrounding villages,’ Guy noted.
‘An outrage that must not go unpunished!’ Reynald declared. ‘We must march to meet him.’
‘We would be fools to do so,’ Raymond countered.
‘And cowards to stay here.’
Raymond’s voice was quietly threatening. ‘I am no coward, Reynald. If you wish to test that truth, please step outside.’
‘Peace!’ Guy shouted. ‘We are not here to fight amongst ourselves. Reynald, you have had your say. Raymond, tell me what you propose.’
‘So long as we stay at La Sephorie, we can choose the time and place of our next battle. Saladin must pass this way if he wishes to attack Acre. If he marches on Jerusalem, we can follow and crush him against the walls of the city. If we attack now, then we leave behind a sure source of water and put ourselves at risk.’
‘Hmph. We marched once already, and Saladin fled before us,’ Reynald pointed out.
‘And the result of our efforts was a hundred sergeants with arrow wounds. Next time, we might not be so lucky. Tell them, John. You know Saladin better than any of us.’
All eyes turned to John. ‘Raymond is right,’ he said. ‘Saladin seeks to draw us out. He will march to meet us, only to retreat and draw us into a trap. It is the Saracen way.’
‘I, too, spent years amongst the Saracens,’ Reynald countered. ‘I know them as well as you, Saxon. When they spring their trap, we will be ready, and we will crush them.’ He looked to Guy. ‘Remember Montgisard!’
‘And Jacob’s Ford,’ Raymond retorted. ‘Just last week, Humphrey lost over half his men while marching up from Kerak.’
‘Do not listen to him, lord regent,’ Reynald insisted. ‘You know that he resents your rule. Raymond only seeks to deny you a chance at glory.’
‘You are regent, Guy,’ Raymond said. ‘Your purpose is not to win glory; it is to protect the Kingdom. The monastery at Mount Tabor can be rebuilt. Beisan can be rebuilt. But if we lose in the field, you will lose us the Kingdom.’
All eyes turned to Guy, but the regent hesitated still, rubbing at his dagger. He was waiting for someone to make the decision for him. No one spoke. Finally, Guy cleared his throat. ‘We will send out scouts. Once we know the enemy’s exact disposition, we will decide whether to march.’ Reynald shook his head and stormed from the room. ‘You are dismissed,’ Guy told the rest of the men.
Raymond fell in beside John as they left the keep. ‘Thank God you came,’ the count said. ‘I had feared Reynald would win the day. Guy is a good man, irresolute. Without his wife to lead him by the nose, he is as lost as a newborn puppy.’
‘He would make a poor king, then?’
Raymond snorted. ‘I would sooner Reynald rule. At least that bastard knows what he wants.’
Rasp. Rasp. Rasp. John sat outside his tent and drew the blade of his dagger over his whetstone. The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark, which suited his purposes. He could not see the keep, only a black space where there hung a single light. It was a candle, glowing in the chamber where Raymond had told him Guy slept. Abruptly, the light winked out. John returned the whetstone to the pouch at his belt, sheathed his blade, and rose. He raised the hood of the black cloak he wore and set out for the keep.
The camp was quiet. John kept well clear of the few men who were awake. He circled around to the north-west of the keep and, crawling on all fours, crept up the hill. There were no guards; they were kept away by the stench of piss and shit below the privy. That was where John headed. He reached the wall of the keep and edged along it until his boots sank in the filth. Above him, he could just make out where the privy jutted out from the tower. The wall before him was coated with piss and shit.
‘God help me,’ he muttered and crossed himself. He reached up and managed to squeeze his fingers into a narrow crack between two stones. His nose wrinkled as he pressed his body against the wall. For a moment, he thought he might retch. Then, gritting his teeth, he hauled himself upwards. He found a toehold and felt with his left hand for another point of purchase. He found it and pulled himself up further.
He made his way up the wall handhold by handhold and inch by inch. The smell had grown less rank by the time he reached the point where the bottom of the small stone enclosure that held the privy jutted out from the wall just above his head. The privy hole itself was behind him, some three feet away from the wall. To get to it, John would have to lean backwards, kick off the wall, and wedge his hands in the hole, all in one fluid movement. He could then wriggle his way upwards. If the lunge missed, however, then he would fall more than twenty feet. With any luck, the shit would cushion him.
He counted to three and then kicked off from the wall, thrusting his hands upwards and into the hole. The sides of the hole were wet with what he did not care to ponder, and John slipped a few inches before he caught himself. He hung there for a second and then began to inch his way upwards. He had just begun when someone stepped into the privy and urinated on him. John squeezed his eyes and mouth shut and held his breath. After a few seconds, the person finished, and a moment later, John heard the privy door open and close. He quickly wiggled the rest of the way through the hole, emerging into a small space with a door on the far side. He pulled off his filthy cloak and cleaned himself
as best he could, then cracked open the door and looked out into an empty hallway. Guy’s room would be to the right. John tiptoed to his door. He turned the handle and pushed gently. It was unlocked. John drew his dagger and slipped inside.
He had hoped to find Guy asleep, but the regent was standing at the window in only a thin cotton shift. He turned. ‘John?’
John froze. If Guy called for the guards, he was as good as dead. The room was dark, and Guy seemed to have not seen the dagger. John turned slightly so that the blade was hidden by his profile. He bowed. ‘Lord regent.’
‘You have news of the scouts?’
‘The scouts?’ John’s mind was racing. He nodded. ‘Yes, they are—’
‘It can wait. Sit.’ Guy gestured to the bed. John managed to hide the dagger blade beneath his leg as he sat. The regent stayed at the window. ‘I am glad you came. I wish to apologize, John.’
John blinked. ‘My lord?’
‘For imprisoning you. Heraclius and Reynald urged me to. Why do they hate you so?’
‘Old disagreements, my lord.’
Guy nodded. ‘I was driven from France by men who hated me. And now I am to be king. I never wished it, John. But Sibylla dreams of the throne. She says I will be a great king.’ He sighed as he turned to look out of the window. John stood, the dagger in his hand. ‘I love her, but I sometimes feel I am only a pawn in some game she is playing. I have so many advisors telling me what to do. Sibylla. Heraclius. Reynald. I sometimes do not know who to trust.’
John lowered the dagger. This man was not worth killing. Heraclius and Reynald, they were the true danger. He was slipping the blade back into its sheath when there was a knock on the door.
‘Enter!’ Guy called.
Reynald stepped into the room. His eyes widened when he saw John. He sniffed the air. ‘You smell like shit, Saxon.’ He looked back to Guy. ‘The scouts have returned, lord regent. Saladin is no longer at Mount Tabor. His army’s tracks head south.’
‘Jerusalem,’ John said.
‘There are other targets in the south, lord regent. Kerak, Shawbak and Ascalon.’
The regent nodded. ‘You are right. Our southern border must be protected. You go to Kerak. I will ride for my lands in Ascalon. John, you are the abbot of Mount Sion. Your place is in Jerusalem. You will go there with Raymond to defend the city.’
Chapter 5
October 1183: Kerak
Yusuf pulled up the hood of his cloak as a light rain began to fall, rippling the waters of the Dead Sea. It was the first rain of the year. Yusuf would see to it that a few sheep were slaughtered that night so the men could celebrate properly. Some had begun to pray in thanks. Others stood beside their horses, which were drinking from a stream that flowed into the sea. More men huddled under their cloaks and chewed on hard bread. Yusuf bit into his own piece and looked south towards Kerak.
His army had left Mount Tabor two weeks before. The feint north had served its purpose. Yusuf had drawn the Frankish army to Saffuriya, and while they sat there, Selim had led Egyptian troops up from the south. Today, Yusuf would join them at Kerak.
Yusuf turned at a sudden burst of merriment. Nu’man was emerging naked from the Dead Sea, and Gökböri was roaring with laughter, his belly shaking. ‘Never seen a real man before?’ Nu’man grumbled as he strode to his horse. He noticed Yusuf watching. ‘I wanted to see for myself, Malik.’
‘See what?’
‘Gökböri says the waters have healing properties.’
‘I’ve been drinking a spoonful a day for years,’ Gökböri declared. ‘Costs more than a few fals to have it shipped north, but it’s worth it. Look at me.’ He slapped his belly. ‘Strong as a mule.’
Yusuf could not help but smile. ‘Well, how do you feel, Nu’man?’
Nu’man shrugged as he pulled on his tunic. ‘Still too short.’ He pulled on a boot, then stopped and pointed to the north. ‘A scout is returning.’
Yusuf spotted the rider cantering along the shore of the lake. He had left a few men behind to keep track of the Frankish army.
The scout’s horse spattered Yusuf with mud as it was reined in before him. The scout swung from the saddle and prostrated himself. ‘My apologies, Malik!’
‘Get up. What news do you bring?’
‘The Frankish army has broken up. Most went to Jerusalem.’
‘And Reynald?’
‘He headed down the west side of the Dead Sea. At the pace he and his men were riding, they should have reached Kerak some time last week.’
‘Good. The bird has come home to roost.’ Yusuf looked to Nu’man. ‘Get dressed. I wish to reach Kerak before nightfall.’
They continued south along the shore. The rain stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds, transforming the sea from flint grey to a brilliant turquoise. Their Bedouin guides led them into a green valley that wound its way through the hills east of the sea. Yusuf saw the tall white walls of Kerak from more than a mile off. The castle sat on a spur of land that thrust out on to a barren stretch of white sand and dusty soil. Steep hills faced in stone dropped away from either side of the spur. There was no way up those hills. The attack would have to come along the neck of the spur.
Yusuf rode out from the hills and on to the arid plain. Nothing grew there, but Kerak’s wealth did not come from the land. It came from preying on the caravan route that ran from Damascus to Ayla, and from there across the Sinai to Cairo. To the north, hundreds of tents sat in the shadow cast by the castle above. A group of men rode out from the tents to meet the army. Yusuf recognized his brother Selim at the head. He had Yusuf’s sharp features and thin build, but he was half a head taller than his older brother.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother,’ Selim declared as he drew alongside Yusuf and leaned over to exchange the ritual kisses.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied. He reached out to touch his brother’s beard, which showed traces of grey. It still seemed only yesterday that Selim had been a fat-cheeked boy. ‘You grow old, Brother.’
Selim let out a short bark of laughter. ‘The camel calls the mule stubborn. Tell me, was it snowing in the hills, Brother? I see more white than black in your hair.’
‘A mark of wisdom,’ Yusuf replied with a smile. He looked to Kerak and grew serious. ‘How goes the siege?’
‘We arrived three days ago. We took the town easily enough, but the castle is another matter. The walls—’
A gust of wind brought with it the sound of music. Yusuf looked to Selim’s camp and frowned. ‘What is this?’
‘Not my men, I assure you, Brother. The Wolf is celebrating a wedding. His son-in-law Humphrey of Toron is marrying King Baldwin’s half-sister, Isabella.’ Selim spat in the dust. ‘The girl is only eleven. It is an abomination.’
Yusuf shrugged. Frankish marriage customs were no business of his. But if the girl were the king’s sister, that might create problems. ‘We must take the castle quickly. Tell me of the walls.’
‘I will show you, Brother.’
Yusuf followed Selim through the camp and on to a trail that zigzagged up to the plateau on which Kerak sat. A dozen men from Yusuf’s khaskiya followed them to the top. The light was brighter up here, where the sun had not yet set. They rode through the town and out on to the narrow spur of land that led to the castle. A line of four catapults stretched across the spur. As Yusuf watched, Selim’s men loaded a heavy stone into one of them. The catapult sprang into action, hurling the rock towards the castle. Yusuf lost track of it, then spotted it again just before it slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Tiny flakes of rock flew from the wall, but nothing more.
‘Rest for a moment,’ Selim told the men at the catapults as he rode past. Beyond the siege engines, an earthen barricade topped with spikes had been erected across the face of the spur. Three hundred mamluks stood watch behind it, ready in case of a sortie from the castle.
‘It is best if we continue on foot,’ Selim said. He dismounted and took hold of Yusuf’s stir
rup.
‘Saqr, come with us,’ Yusuf said as he dismounted. He followed his brother through a narrow opening in the barricade. Ahead, the land of the spur had been cut away by the Franks to create a gap twenty feet across and ten feet deep. A bridge lay across the gap. As Yusuf crossed, he looked down and saw burnt timbers on the ground below.
‘They burned the bridge,’ Selim explained. ‘We had to build a new one.’
‘Be sure to post guards at night, in case they seek to burn this one.’
They stopped at the far side, only fifty yards from the castle wall. The music had become much louder – flutes were playing a cheerful melody over the strumming of a lute.
‘We should go no closer,’ Selim cautioned. ‘They have crossbowmen on the wall.’
The wall was higher on the right, where it protected the upper court of the castle. Here and there, the facade was rough where bits of stone had fallen away, and Yusuf saw a few cracks near the top of the lower wall. That was the extent of the damage from the catapults. ‘Concentrate the bombardment on the walls of the lower court,’ he said. ‘When last I besieged Kerak, those walls fell first. Once we take the lower court, we can storm the upper.’ He put a hand on Selim’s shoulder. ‘You have done well, Brother.’
‘I am glad you are pleased. Perhaps you would grant me a request?’
‘Name it.’
‘I am wasted counting coins in Cairo, Brother. The battle is in the north, with Mosul and the Franks. When we are done here, give me Aleppo.’
Yusuf’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘My son Az-Zahir rules in Aleppo.’
‘He is clever, Brother, but he is only a boy. I will teach him how to govern.’
‘And who would govern Egypt for me with you gone?’
‘Ubadah.’
‘Our nephew is too impulsive.’
‘A few years counting coins might help cool his temper.’