Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Of course not, Your Grace. My apologies if I misspoke when addressing the Regent.’

  Baldwin waved aside the apology. He leaned forward. ‘How do you answer to the charge that you sought to remove me and place Guy on the throne?’

  Reynald straightened, his shoulders back and his head held high. ‘I do not deny it.’ Baldwin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the arms of his chair, but Reynald went on. ‘The Kingdom needs a king. You were incapacitated, and the doctors feared the worse. We could not wait forever for a recovery that seemed doubtful.’

  ‘You swore fealty to me. It was your duty to wait.’

  ‘It is my duty to defend the Kingdom.’

  ‘If you wish to defend the Kingdom, then what possessed you to attack the ports of Medina and Mecca? You might have doomed us all with your mad raid. I have a mind to take your head for it.’

  The colour drained from Reynald’s face as he realized the severity of his situation. He licked his lips. ‘It was Guy, Your Grace. He ordered me to do it. He said he wanted to start his reign with a great gesture, to show the infidels that they were not safe anywhere.’

  ‘He lies to save his life, Your Grace,’ John interrupted.

  Baldwin raised a hand for silence. ‘If what you say is true, Reynald, then Guy is an even greater fool than you.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  Baldwin sat back and slumped in his chair. He was clearly exhausted. John had forgotten how ill he was. ‘You will swear loyalty to the throne,’ he said in a tired voice.

  ‘I swear it, Your Grace.’ Reynald knelt. ‘My sword is yours until the day I die.’

  ‘You will lead your men when and where I command. Until then, see that you stay in your castle. You may go.’

  Reynald rose and bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He limped from the room.

  ‘But, Your Grace!’ John declared when he had gone. ‘You cannot mean to let him keep Kerak?’

  Baldwin sighed. ‘He is a fool, but a brave fool, John. We have precious few knights his equal. The Saracens fear him. If properly muzzled, Reynald can be useful.’ The king raised his voice. ‘Porters! Take me to my bed. I must rest. Tomorrow, we start for Jerusalem. It is time I dealt with Guy, my sister, and that snake Heraclius.’

  December 1183: Jerusalem

  The bells were tolling as John walked through the small cloister of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Baldwin had restored him to his post as archdeacon of the church, but John was not headed to prayers. He had another task to perform. He wore mail and a mace hung from his belt. Ten sergeants marched behind him, Aestan at their head.

  From the cloister, they passed through a hall and on to the entryway that gave access to the palace of the patriarch. The door was guarded by four knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Jerusalem cross blazoned on their surcoats.

  ‘I have come to see the Patriarch,’ John told them. He held up a parchment with the royal seal at the bottom. ‘King’s business.’

  The guards eyed the document and the men behind John. They stepped aside and pulled the doors open. The floor of the patriarch’s palace was covered with thick carpets that swallowed up the sound of John’s boots. Gold and silver thread glittered in the rich tapestries that hung on the walls. The air smelt of incense. John took the stairs to Heraclius’s private suites. Two more guards stood at the door.

  John presented the parchment. ‘Stand aside. I come on King’s business.’

  ‘The King has no authority here.’

  John’s hand went to his mace. ‘Step aside.’ This time, it was a threat. The guards hesitated a moment longer, then moved aside. John entered to find Heraclius at table. He wore his robes of silk open at the front. A buxom young blonde in a translucent cotton shift sat on his lap. Her braying laughter stopped short at the sight of John.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Heraclius demanded.

  ‘The King has requested your presence.’

  ‘I am the Patriarch, not some servant to be—’

  John pushed the woman off his lap and grabbed Heraclius by the arm, hauling him from the table.

  ‘Unhand me!’ Heraclius squealed as he struggled in vain to pull free of John’s grip. ‘I am your superior!’

  John took the mace from his belt. ‘I would be only too happy to use force to compel you to come, Heraclius.’

  The patriarch stopped struggling. ‘That will not be necessary.’ He tied his robes about him and strode stiffly through the door, John at his back. The sergeants fell in around them.

  It was a short walk under clear winter skies from the patriarch’s palace to that of the king. Their escort left them at the palace gate, and John took Heraclius by the arm and guided him to the king’s large audience chamber. The vaulted hall was crowded. Guards lined the walls and barons and courtiers stood before them. At the centre of the hall, Guy stood with his wife Sibylla and his brother Amalric. The two men shifted nervously. Sibylla stood unmoving, her head held high. She wore a tight-fitting caftan that accentuated her slender figure. Her long auburn hair hung loose down her back, and she had decorated her eyes with kohl.

  Baldwin sat on his throne across from Sibylla. He wore full regalia, an ermine-lined cape over his shoulders and the crown of Jerusalem on his head. The silver mask hid his face. He clutched a scroll in his right hand. A second throne had been set beside him and on it sat his nephew, Sibylla’s son Baldwin. The sickly child also wore royal robes and a thin crown. Behind the throne stood Agnes, straight-backed and regal. Raymond, Joscelin and Balian flanked her, along with Peter, the bishop of Tripoli, whom Baldwin had named chancellor to replace William.

  John guided Heraclius to stand beside Guy and then went to join the others behind the throne. ‘I have brought Heraclius, Your Grace,’ he whispered to the blind king.

  ‘All are present?’ the king asked.

  ‘The traitors stand before you,’ Agnes told him.

  ‘Then we will begin.’ Baldwin raised the scroll and tossed it to land at Amalric’s feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  The constable picked up the scroll and unrolled it. His forehead creased in confusion. ‘I have never seen this document.’

  Beside him, Guy had paled. ‘My lord, I never wished to be king. I—’

  ‘Silence! I do not wish to hear you snivel. I know well enough that this plot was not hatched by you, Guy. You and your brother are too simple for such treachery.’

  Guy bowed. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Beside John, Balian sniggered.

  ‘This bears the stamp of Heraclius and my sister,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It was Sibylla!’ Heraclius squealed. ‘She asked my advice on how to draw up such a document. I gave it to her, nothing more. I will swear it on the True Cross itself.’

  ‘What do you say to this, Sister?’

  Sibylla looked down her thin nose at her brother. ‘I am a princess and heir to the throne. I will not suffer this charade of a trial. Do what you will to me and be done with it.’

  ‘Very well.’ Baldwin cleared his throat. ‘Amalric, I believe you innocent. You are a brave man. If you swear to serve me faithfully, then you shall continue in your post as constable.’

  ‘I swear it, Your Grace.’

  Baldwin turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the Patriarch. ‘Heraclius, you have your post by the will of God; it is not for me to gainsay Him. But to demonstrate your loyalty, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre shall contribute fifty thousand bezants to the Crown for the defence of the Kingdom. John assures me that you have the sum.’

  Heraclius looked ill. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘Guy of Lusignan,’ Baldwin declared, ‘you are regent no longer.’

  ‘And who shall rule?’ Sibylla asked with a smirk. ‘You, Brother? You are no king. You are a cripple.’

  The silver mask hid Baldwin’s expression, but his silence betrayed his anger. When he finally spoke, his voice grated like two stones rubbing together. ‘From this moment, my nephew Baldwin will rule beside me.
When I die, it is he who will succeed me, not you, Sibylla.’

  ‘You cannot do this, Brother! The Haute Cour—’

  ‘– has already sanctioned my command.’

  ‘But, Your Grace,’ Guy ventured. ‘Young Baldwin is only a child of six.’

  ‘Raymond of Tripoli shall serve as regent until the boy comes of age. You, Guy, will take that scheming wife of yours and return to Ascalon. If either of you shows your face in Jerusalem without my permission, I will have your head.’

  Sibylla glared at her brother for a moment longer, and then the arrogance left her. She slumped to the floor and began to weep. ‘Brother, please! For the love I bear you, do not do this!’

  ‘Save your false tears, Sister. They will not move me.’

  Sibylla rose, her tears gone and her face now red with rage. She pointed to Agnes. ‘This is your doing! You always favoured that diseased cripple over me. You will pay for this!’ She stormed out. Guy followed.

  ‘That went well,’ Balian murmured.

  ‘Do not take Sibylla’s anger lightly, Balian,’ Agnes cautioned. ‘There is much of me in her. She is dangerous, more dangerous than a thousand Saracens.’

  Chapter 6

  November 1184: Jerusalem

  ‘Your Grace,’ John called softly from the doorway. The candle had burned out, and though dawn light was beginning to filter through the window, the room remained dim. He could just make out the king. Baldwin sat beside the bed where Agnes’s body had been laid out. He was slumped forward, his head on his mother’s chest, his face away from John. He had not moved at the sound of John’s voice. John crossed the room and touched his shoulder. ‘Your Grace, it is time.’

  Baldwin lifted his head. It was the first time John had seen him without the silver mask since the king had woken from his illness. His cheekbones were prominent over sunken cheeks that were covered with red lesions. A lump like a gnarled root deformed his right brow. His nose was shrivelled and misshapen, the left nostril eaten away by disease. The king’s sightless eyes were red from weeping. He turned his head in John’s direction and spoke in a hoarse voice. ‘I prayed once to be free of her, John. Now she is dead.’

  ‘It is not your doing, Your Grace. Agnes has lost much of her hair, and her nails are yellowed. She was poisoned.’

  ‘Zirnih.’ Baldwin whispered the name of the poison. ‘I know the signs all too well. This was Sibylla’s doing, I have no doubt. She is her mother’s child.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Annul her marriage to Guy and send her to Europe. Perhaps Philip of Flanders will still want her hand.’

  ‘It will be difficult to annul the marriage without the Patriarch.’ Rather than pay the fifty thousand bezants Baldwin had demanded, Heraclius had fled to France. Men at the docks in Acre said they had seen him loading chests full of gold aboard his ship.

  ‘Nevertheless, it must be done. I shall not live for much longer, John. I’ll not have Sibylla and her fool husband scheming for the throne when I am gone. I want her far away. And we must have peace.’ Baldwin reached out and found John’s hand. The king’s own was gnarled and covered with white nodules. ‘I am sending you to Damascus to treat with Saladin.’

  ‘The last time we met it was with swords in hand. You should send another.’

  ‘There is no one else I trust. William is still in Rome. Raymond must stay in Jerusalem in case I die. It must be you, John. Render me this last service.’

  John nodded. ‘I will not fail you, Your Grace.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ Baldwin turned back to his mother and found her hand. The sun rose higher and light spilled through the window to illuminate her, turning her blond hair gold. Agnes was still beautiful, even in death. Seeing her like this, it was easy for John to remember why he had loved her once. Part of him, he realized, loved her still.

  ‘We must go,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘The vigil is over. She must be taken to the church for burial.’

  Baldwin nodded. He kissed his mother’s hand. ‘Had she not kept me safe during my illness, I might be dead now. She stood by me, in the end.’

  ‘She did, Your Grace.’

  Baldwin leaned back in his chair. ‘Porters!’

  Four men entered the room and carried him out. When they had gone, John leaned forward and kissed Agnes’s cheek. It was surprisingly cold. He brushed away a tear as he strode from the room.

  January 1185: Damascus

  The sun hovering over the hills west of Damascus glowed like iron fresh from the forge and sent John’s shadow racing before him as he led his mule into the courtyard of one of the caravanserais outside the city. Stable boys were already tending to the camels and horses of the caravan he had joined. He preferred to travel with Saracens rather than an escort of Frankish sergeants, who would only cause trouble. A slight boy no older than seven came to take John’s mule. The child’s eyes went wide as John handed him a silver denier. ‘See that she is brushed, her hooves picked, and she is well fed and watered, and you shall have another,’ John told him in Arabic.

  ‘Yes, sayyid.’ The boy bowed and led the mule away.

  ‘Juwan!’

  He turned to see Dhameer, the merchant who had organized the caravan. He was dressed in expensive silks, but his broad shoulders and rough, scar-lined hands spoke of a previous life as a soldier. He smiled and held out his hand palm upwards. John had joined the caravan in Acre, where he had paid Dhameer three deniers. The rest of the fee was due now that they had reached their destination. John took a gold bezant from the pouch at his belt and placed it in Dhameer’s hand.

  Dhameer made to give the coin back. ‘I am no thief. This is too much.’

  ‘Keep it.’ It was no secret that those who paid well were afforded better protection by the caravan guards. ‘Consider it an expression of my thanks for having delivered me safely to Damascus. I trust I will be welcome in your caravan for the return journey?’

  ‘Of course. We leave in one week’s time.’

  ‘I will see you then.’ John headed for the gate.

  ‘Where are you going? Stay with us, Juwan. Tonight we feast our safe arrival.’

  ‘I have business in Damascus.’

  ‘You must hurry then. The city gates close at sunset.’

  John checked the sun. The lower rim was touching the hills. He left the caravanserai and walked briskly down a path that cut through the orchards. The orange trees were heavy with fruit, and their scent filled the cool evening air. Ahead, he could see the Bab al-Faradis, or gate of paradise. Only the top of it was lit by the setting sun; the lower half was bathed in shadows. In the dim light, and dressed in a dusty caftan and keffiyeh, John looked much like any other Saracen. The guards at the gate hardly spared him a glance. No sooner had John passed through than he heard the creak of it being closed behind him. Muezzins began to chant the call to prayer. ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Ash-hadu an la ilaha illallah!’

  The streets were filling with men heading towards the great mosque at the heart of the city. John joined the crowd. The palace lay just beside the mosque. He went straight to the men who guarded the bridge across the moat.

  ‘What do you want?’ the captain of the guards demanded.

  ‘I am an emissary of King Baldwin of Jerusalem. I have come on his behalf to speak with Al-Malik al-nasir Saladin.’

  ‘King Baldwin, eh?’ The guard let out a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Saladin’s next public audience is Tuesday. Come back then.’

  John reached into his caftan, and the guards lowered their spears towards him. He slowly took a scroll of paper from the tube around his neck, unrolled it, and handed it to the captain. The scroll was covered in Arabic and bore the king’s seal. The guard’s forehead creased as he squinted at the writing. John guessed he could not read. That was good. The illiterate often had an almost superstitious respect for the written word.

  ‘It says that I am John of Tatewic, abbot of Mount Sion, archdeacon of the Church of t
he Holy Sepulchre, and councillor to King Baldwin. I come on his behalf to treat with Saladin.’

  The captain stared at the paper a moment longer before rolling the scroll and tucking it into his belt. ‘Show him inside. I will inform the Malik.’

  John was taken to a small room off the entrance hall of the palace. A servant brought him water and a bowl filled with cubes of watermelon. After that, John saw no one for a long time. He paced the room. Would Yusuf receive him as a friend or as an enemy? Finally, John knelt to pray in order to calm his nerves. The single candle that lit the room had shrunk so that it was guttering in its own wax when the door finally opened. Imad ad-Din stepped inside.

  ‘John! It is really you.’

  John embraced him. He had known Imad ad-Din since the scholar was a young man tutoring Yusuf in history and politics. Now, Imad ad-Din had grey hair and a lined face. ‘It has been too long,’ John told him. ‘Will he see me?’

  ‘I will take you to him.’

  They crossed the palace through marble-clad halls and climbed a stairwell to Yusuf’s private quarters. Saqr stood guard at the door. ‘The Malik is waiting,’ he told John and pulled the door open.

  Yusuf sat amidst cushions on the far side of the small audience chamber. John hardly recognized him. Yusuf’s cheeks were hollow, his hair and beard more grey than black. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘John.’ He sounded weary. ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘King Baldwin has sent me. He desires peace between our kingdoms.’

  ‘But why you? He could have sent another emissary.’

  ‘He chose me, friend.’

  ‘You are not my friend. You have chosen your side. You made that clear at Montgisard.’

  ‘I spared your life.’

  ‘And saved Baldwin’s. This war could have been over.’ Yusuf sighed. ‘Your king and I are enemies, John. So long as you serve him, so are we.’

  ‘We do not have to be.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ John decided to try a different tack. ‘You need peace with us in order to deal with Mosul.’ He waited for a reply, but Yusuf did not speak. ‘I have my orders, Yusuf. I will not leave without peace.’