Chapter 2

APRIL TO JUNE 1148: ACRE

John leaned over the ship’s rail and vomited into the sparkling, clear blue waters of Acre harbour. His company of knights had been at sea for a week, sailing down the coast of Outremer from Attalia, and John had been miserably sick the entire trip. Still, he thanked God that he had not been left behind, prey to hunger, thirst and the devilish Seljuk Turks. They had shadowed the crusading army throughout the long march across the arid lands of Anatolia, swooping down after dark on their sleek horses and riddling the crusaders with arrows before melting back into the night like ghosts. The Seljuks had killed thousands, and when the leaders of the crusade took a handful of men and sailed from Attalia, thousands more had been left to the Turks’ mercy. At sixteen, John was only a foot-soldier, but his noble blood had entitled him to a place on the ships. At least it was good for something, he thought, and then puked again.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at the city of Acre. Ships lined the curving quay, their tall masts bare of sails. On the decks, sailors were busy unloading casks, sacks of grain and bleating sheep. Beyond the ships, the harbour was crowded with market stalls, and past them sat square, dusty-white buildings set one on top of the other. To John’s right, the buildings stretched away to a massive tower, part of the wall that protected the city; to his left, they ran uphill to a thick-walled citadel.

‘Saxon!’ someone barked, and John turned to see the hulking, thickly bearded figure of Ernaut stomping towards him. Ernaut smirked when he saw the trail of yellow-brown vomit on John’s white surcoat. ‘Stop your puking and get your arse over here. Lord Reynald wants to speak to us.’

John followed Ernaut to the foredeck, where the other men had gathered in their chainmail and surcoats, white with red crusader’s crosses on the chest. Ernaut disappeared into the rear cabin and returned a moment later with Reynald. Reynald de Chatillon was a handsome, well-proportioned man of twenty-three. He had sharp features, closely cropped hair and a well-groomed, short black beard. He smiled at them, revealing even, white teeth.

‘My men,’ he began, ‘it has been nearly a year since we left our homes for the Holy Land. Now at last, by the grace of God, we have arrived, and our holy work can begin.’ Several of the men sniggered. Reynald had drunk and whored his way through every village between Worms and Attalia. Reynald’s eyes narrowed and his smile faded. The sniggering stopped immediately.

‘You may be wondering why we have not sailed to Antioch with King Louis and the others,’ Reynald continued. ‘Our king has entrusted me with an important mission at the court of Baldwin, King of Jerusalem.’ As he was speaking, three of the ship’s sailors leapt the short distance to the dockside, grabbed ropes and began to pull the boat tight against the quay. ‘As emissaries of King Louis, we must be on our best behaviour.’ Reynald’s voice was hard-edged. ‘I will go ashore to announce our presence to King Baldwin. You are to wait at the docks until we are told where to camp. I want no trouble. That means no women and no wine.’ The men groaned. Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, and the men quieted. Reynald was a deadly swordsman. He nodded, satisfied. ‘You will wait here,’ he repeated and marched off down the gangway the sailors had set up, followed by two sergeants, Thomas and Bertran.

‘You heard Lord Reynald!’ Ernaut bellowed at the men. ‘There’s to be no trouble. Now get below and grab your gear.’

John followed the other men below decks. The dank hold was lit only dimly by a shaft of light shining through the hatch above. The huge warhorses whose stalls took up most of the space nickered and stamped, thinking that they were going to be fed. John kept his distance. It was not the size of the chargers that set them apart from other horses, so much as their temperament. It had been John’s task during the voyage to muck out their stalls, and he had been bitten, stepped on or kicked more than once.

John headed away from the stalls to the cramped space where the knights had slept, their thin blankets laid out almost on top of one another. John grabbed the leather rucksack containing his helmet, spare tunic, simple tent, woollen blanket and prayer book. He already wore his most valuable possessions: leather boots and breeches; chainmail armour that hung to his knees; a tattered cloak; a tall, kite-shaped shield slung over his back; a waterskin dangling from his shoulder; and hanging from his belt, his father’s sword and a pouch containing a few coppers and his wetting stone.

John climbed from the hold with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and marched down the gangway. Several other men were kneeling on the ground and kissing the soil. John joined them, crossing himself and offering up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe arrival. It seemed like a lifetime since he had fled England with only the armour on his back and a sword at his side. He had joined the crusade in Worms and marched through the great cities of Salonika, Constantinople and Ephesus. Now, at last, he was in Outremer, the Holy Land. He rose and breathed deeply. The usual smells of a port — salty sea air and freshly caught fish — were overlaid with more pungent odours from the nearby market: heavily perfumed women, roasting meats, yeasty bread and burning incense. Joining the other men, John took his helmet from his rucksack and sat on it. The late-morning sun beat down, and he wiped sweat from his brow as he gazed at the market. Only a few feet away, two olive-skinned Saracens in white burnouses — loose-fitting cloaks with broad sleeves — were selling swords and knives. John had never seen anything like the blades, with their polished steel surfaces covered in interlacing patterns in darker grey.

‘What are they doing here?’ said one of the knights, pointing at the two Saracens. He was a loudmouth named Aalot, nicknamed One Eye. He claimed that he had lost his eye fighting the English in Normandy, but John had heard that a vengeful prostitute was to blame. ‘I thought we came to fight those sand-devils, and here they are setting up shop in a Christian city.’

‘Let it be, One Eye,’ Ernaut ordered. ‘We’re not to make any trouble.’

One Eye spread his hands in protest. ‘I’m not making trouble.’ He turned to Rabbit, the youngest of the men at only thirteen. His real name was Oudin, but the men had dubbed him Rabbit, as much for the way his nose twitched when he was nervous as for his large ears, which were completely out of proportion to his skinny, freckled face. ‘I hear the Saracens eat their captives,’ One Eye said. ‘They cut their hearts out while they’re still alive and eat them raw.’

‘That’s after they bugger them,’ another of the men added.

Rabbit’s eyes were wide. ‘Those are just stories.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ One Eye insisted. ‘You fought in the first crusade, Tybaut. You tell him.’

Tybaut, a grey-haired bull of a man, was sharpening his sword with slow, rasping strokes of his wetting stone. He did not look up as he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. ‘You’re young enough, Rabbit, that they’d take you as a slave. Then they’d bugger you.’ The men laughed. Rabbit’s nose twitched.

‘It’s damnable hot out here,’ Ernaut grumbled, interrupting the laughter. ‘You, Saxon! Go and fetch me some water.’ He tossed John a leather waterskin.

‘Christ’s blood!’ John cursed under his breath as he rose. ‘Yes, sir,’ he added more loudly.

‘Me too, Saxon,’ said One Eye, tossing John his skin. Two-dozen more waterskins followed as the other men added theirs.

‘’Sblood!’ John cursed again. As the second youngest member of the troop and an Englishman too, he was subjected to constant ribbing and always assigned the most degrading of tasks. He began to gather up the skins. It would be all he could do to carry them back once they were filled, and that’s if he could find a well.

‘I’ll help.’ Rabbit shouldered eight of the waterskins.

‘Remember, Saxon: you’re only supposed to fill up the skins!’ One Eye made a crudely suggestive gesture with his hands, and the men laughed.

‘What’s he talking about?’ Rabbit asked.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ John told him as he began to shoulder his way through the market crowd, a mixture of fair-skinned Franks, bearded Jews, local Christians, Saracens and dark-skinned Africans, all dressed alike in turbans and loose burnouses. Veiled women passed through the crowd here and there, the men giving them wide birth. John passed a stall where a black-haired Italian was showing strips of leather to two clean-shaven Templars in the distinctive surcoats of their order: half-black, half-white and emblazoned with a red cross. Next to the stall, a monk in his black cowl was staring out to sea as he chewed some unidentifiable meat off a stick. John stopped next to him. ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for a well.’ The monk looked back uncomprehendingly, then spread his hands and said something in Greek. John moved on towards a veiled lady in a golden tunic, who was examining glass goblets at the booth of a fat, bearded Jew in a skullcap. ‘Pardon me, lady.’

She turned to look at him, wide-eyed. A second later, John was grabbed from behind and shoved roughly aside. He turned to see a tall, thickly muscled Frank in chainmail. ‘You’re not to speak to the lady,’ the Frank growled. He and the lady moved away into the crowd.

John turned to the Jewish merchant. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ he began in Frankish, but the man shook his head and replied in a language that John did not understand. ‘Do you speak English?’ John tried. Again the Jew shook his head no, then tried another language that John did not recognize, and then another. ‘Latin?’ John asked.

The Jew’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m looking for a well.’

‘There are no wells in the city.’

‘No wells?’ John asked, dumbfounded.

‘There is a fountain, that way.’ The Jew pointed down the quay to a shadowy alleyway that led deeper into the city. ‘You will find water there.’

‘Thank you. Come on,’ John told Rabbit, switching back into Frankish. The two headed down the quay towards the alleyway.

‘How did you learn all of those languages?’ Rabbit asked.

‘I was a second son. I was trained to enter the Church.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

John winced. He gestured to the red crusader’s cross sewn to his surcoat. ‘I took up the cross instead.’

‘Why?’

‘None of your business,’ John snapped, but his words were drowned out by a shouting crowd just ahead. Men were pressed four-deep around a raised platform, where a skinny young Saracen stood, naked but for a thin loincloth.

An Italian slave merchant stood beside the Saracen, loudly touting his virtues in accented Latin. ‘He is strong as an ox,’ the Italian declared, squeezing the Saracen’s stringy bicep. He slapped the boy, who did not move. ‘And docile, too.’

John turned away and headed into the shadowy alleyway that the Jew had indicated. The path twisted left and right, growing narrower and narrower. John had to step over a beggar, who sat with head bowed and hand out. A few feet further on, a scantily clad, buxom Saracen woman stepped out of a dark doorway. ‘Only ten fals,’ she said in Latin. John squeezed by her, and she turned her attention on Rabbit. ‘Ten coppers,’ she purred, pressing herself against him. John pulled Rabbit away.

They emerged from the dark passageway into a bright, three-sided plaza. In the centre, water bubbled from the mouth of an ancient stone head and filled a wide pool, where turbaned men and veiled women were busy filling red clay jars.

‘Water flowing from stone,’ Rabbit whispered. ‘How is it possible?’

John strode to the pool and bent over, scooping the cool water into his mouth. ‘I don’t know, but it tastes blessed good.’ He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up. Rabbit was pointing to the men and women around them. They had stopped filling their jars and were staring at John with undisguised menace. One of them, a tall, olive-skinned man with a long beard and a curved dagger belted to his waist, pointed at John and shouted something in Arabic.

John spread his arms. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’ The man stepped closer and began to yell what sounded like a string of insults, repeatedly poking John in the chest. ‘I told you: I don’t understand your dirty Saracen tongue,’ John growled. ‘Now leave me be.’ He shoved the Saracen, who stumbled back several feet. The man’s hand went to his dagger hilt, and John and Rabbit both drew their swords.

‘I suggest you sheathe your weapons,’ someone behind them said in Frankish. John turned to see a young, tonsured man of slight build, wearing black priest’s robes. The priest gestured for John to look around him. At least a dozen turbaned men stood around the plaza with daggers drawn.

‘Do as he says,’ John told Rabbit.

‘Thank you,’ the priest said. ‘We want no violence here.’ He went to the angry Saracen, and the two men exchanged words in Arabic. The Saracen and priest kissed one another on each cheek, and the Saracen turned away, apparently satisfied. The priest turned back to John.

‘What did the Saracen want?’ John asked

‘Oh, he is no Saracen. These men are native Christians.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ John muttered.

‘Syrian and Armenian Christians have lived amongst the Saracens for centuries,’ the priest explained. ‘They have adopted Arab customs, but they are as Christian as you or me.’

‘Well what did he want?’

‘He said that the two of you should bathe before coming to the fountain. He fears that you will pollute the waters.’ John looked at the men and women around him. They all had clean hands and faces, and were wearing impeccably clean white linen caftans. The priest too had neat hair and clean, trimmed nails. John looked down at his dirty surcoat, still stained with traces of vomit. Rabbit was little better, with matted hair. ‘I hope I do not offend,’ the priest continued, ‘but your odour is rather rank. The bath-house is just over there.’ He pointed to a large building just down the street.

‘A bath-house?’ Rabbit asked. ‘What kind of savage place is this?’

The priest smiled. ‘You are in a land of savages now, good sir. You shall have to learn to behave as one.’ He turned to go.

‘Thank you for your help, Father,’ John called after him. ‘Might I ask your name?’

‘William,’ the priest replied. ‘William of Tyre. I welcome you to the kingdom of Jerusalem, good knights. I hope you find all that you seek.’ And with that, the man turned and walked away.

‘What now?’ Rabbit asked.

John grimaced. ‘Now we bathe.’

John’s ears were still burning as he and Rabbit staggered down the narrow alleyway to the harbour, the heavy, bulging water-skins slung over their shoulders. The baths had been worse than he had anticipated. They had entered through the wrong door and found themselves surrounded by indignant, screeching women, who had chased them back into the street, much to the amusement of the men lounging outside in the shade. After finding the men’s entrance, they had paid one copper each to a sweaty, bug-eyed man, who told them in thickly accented Frankish to disrobe and then handed them two tiny cotton cloths to wrap around their waists. They were hustled through a small room with a single pool of cold water and on to an enormous pool whose steaming waters occupied an octagonal building with a high, domed ceiling. Windows had been cut high up on the wall, and the light streaming in illuminated men of every race, all naked but for their thin wraps. John had cleaned himself well enough and was just about to climb out when an enormous Saracen servant approached, grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip, and proceeded to scrub him fiercely all over with a long-handled brush. Rabbit was given even worse treatment by a severe old man who grabbed him by the shoulders and repeatedly dunked him under the water.

Their skin raw, John and Rabbit were ushered to the pool of cold water and shoved in. Gasping and shaking from the cold, they were finally allowed to leave. They had retreated to the changing room, where they found that their clothes had been washed in their absence. They practically ran as they left the building. John had to admit, though, that his scalp no longer itched and his hands were whiter than they had been in months. Perhaps the custom was not completely barbaric, after all.

‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he and Rabbit emerged from the dark alleyway. The market stalls were closing up in advance of the midday heat, and the crowd had mostly gone. Beyond the stalls, the ship they had arrived on was already being loaded with new cargo: large barrels that the sailors were rolling up the gangway. Between the market and ship there was only empty ground. The men of their company were gone.

‘You, sailor!’ John shouted to one of the men loading the ship. ‘Where did our men go?’ The sailor shrugged and pointed off down the dock, away from the citadel. John scanned the harbour, but there was no sign of the men. ‘Damn!’ he cursed, dropping the waterskins.

‘We should look for them,’ Rabbit suggested.

‘Where? In there?’ John gestured to the city. ‘We have no idea which direction they went. We’d only get lost.’

Rabbit’s nose twitched. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

John sighed. ‘You’re right, Rabbit. Maybe the glass seller knows where they went.’ John shouldered the waterskins and headed towards the Jewish merchant, who was shutting up his stall. ‘Thank you, sir. We found the water.’ John pointed to the skins, and the Jew smiled in acknowledgement. ‘The men who were there,’ John continued, pointing to where the company had been sitting. ‘Do you know where they went?’

The Jew shrugged. ‘No, I am sorry.’ He picked up a string of glass beads and held it out to them. ‘Would you like to buy something? A present for a lady?’

‘No, thank you.’ John turned away to see a knight watching them from horseback. The man wore a black surcoat emblazoned with the distinctive white Hospitaller cross, composed of what looked like four arrowheads, all touching at the tips.

‘Looking for something?’ the knight asked.

‘We are Reynald de Chatillon’s men,’ John explained. ‘We are looking for the rest of our company.’

The Hospitaller’s eyebrows arched. ‘Reynald’s men, eh?’ He paused and then pointed along the dockside. ‘The rest of your company went that way. They are setting up camp outside the city, just past the harbour gate.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The knight nodded and rode on.

John and Rabbit marched along the long harbour, passing tall-masted ships to their right and squat buildings on their left. By the time they finally reached Acre’s wall, John’s shoulders were burning from the leather straps of the waterskins. The end of the wall was marked by a massive, square gate-tower, which rose up from the coastline. They passed through the gate into a flat, empty space, and then through a second, outer wall. The men were setting up their tents in its shade.

‘Where have you been?’ Ernaut demanded as John and Rabbit trudged over to the camp and dropped the skins. He unstopped his skin and took a long drink, eyes narrowing as he examined John and Rabbit more closely. ‘And what happened to you? You look like two pigs scrubbed up for market.’

John could feel his face reddening. ‘Nothing. It took us a while to find water.’

‘And they made us bathe,’ Rabbit added. John winced.

Ernaut dropped his skin, and water sprayed from his nose as he burst into a fit of laughter. The men nearby also began laughing, and the others approached to find the source of the merriment.

‘They made you bathe?’ One Eye asked with a wink. ‘Tell us all about it, Rabbit. Did the Saxon here scrub you nice and good?’

‘No,’ Rabbit said. ‘There were servants for that.’ This produced another, louder fit of laughter from the men.

‘Leave him be, One Eye,’ John said. ‘Come on, Rabbit. Let’s pitch our tents.’ John stomped away, followed by the men’s mocking laughter.

‘What did I say?’ Rabbit asked.

‘Nothing. Just try to keep your mouth shut around them.’ John dropped his rucksack and began to pitch his tent on the edge of the camp. He glanced back. The men were roaring with laughter as One Eye bent over, his arse in the air and a quizzical look on his face as he shouted out, ‘Is that a bar of soap, Saxon?’ John grimaced. The sooner the fighting began the better.

John’s shovel dug into the sandy ground, and he leaned forward, scooping up a pile of dirt and flinging it out of the three-foot deep trench where he stood. He paused to push his damp, blond hair out of his face. The June sun blazed down mercilessly from a cloudless sky. When he had first arrived in Acre, two months ago, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour under that sun. Now, after weeks of hard labour, he was tanned and fit, firm muscles filling out his bony frame. He had already been working for two hours, shirtless, as he shovelled out a new latrine ditch for the ever-expanding camp. The Germans under the Holy Roman Emperor Conrad had arrived shortly after John’s company to swell the ranks of the crusaders. In the past week alone, hundreds more had flooded into the camp outside Acre: Raymond of Antioch and his nobles; King Louis of France with two hundred mounted knights; and hundreds of Templars and Hospitallers from every corner of the kingdom of Jerusalem.

‘Get back to work, bath-boy,’ One Eye shouted from where he sat on the ground beside the ditch, shaded by a sheet of white linen. John plunged the shovel back into the earth. This time, when he flung the dirt out of the ditch, it hit One Eye in the face.

‘You’ll pay for that, Saxon!’ One Eye spluttered. He brushed the dirt away and jumped to his feet, fists raised, but then froze. John turned to follow his gaze. A group of mounted knights with Reynald at their head was approaching over the barren plain, their horses’ hooves kicking up a tall plume of dust. As they rode into the outskirts of the sprawling crusader camp, men began to cheer. John squinted. He could just make out four darker men in white turbans riding in the centre of the knights. They rode stiffly, hands tied in front of them. Prisoners.

‘You stay here and dig, Saxon,’ One Eye ordered. ‘If this trench isn’t finished when I get back, then you’ll answer to Ernaut.’

‘Bastard,’ John muttered as One Eye strode away. After a while, the cheering in camp stopped, but One Eye did not return. The sun crawled across the sky, passing its zenith. John was nearly finished with the trench when he heard Rabbit calling his name.

‘John!’ Rabbit skidded to a stop at the edge of the trench. ‘Come on! Get your armour!’

John dropped his shovel. ‘My armour? Are we under attack?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ Rabbit replied, his eyes wide with excitement. ‘Lord Reynald has captured prisoners. There’s going to be a tournament!’

‘By Christ’s wounds, it’s hot,’ John muttered, wincing as his hand glanced against the skirt of his scalding-hot chainmail. He followed Rabbit to a spot in the shade of the city wall, where a ring twelve paces wide had been marked off on the dusty ground. A large hour-glass had been placed on a stool, to keep time for betting purposes. Reynald’s men stood around the ring, shifting uncomfortably in their hot armour. John and Rabbit elbowed their way to the front, directly across from Reynald and Ernaut. As word spread, other knights came — Hospitallers, Templars, Franks, and Germans — forming a dense crowd, those at the back standing on their helmets for a better view. Others gathered on top of the nearby wall to look down on the sport.

When Reynald judged that a suitable crowd was present, he stepped into the centre of the ring. ‘Today, while out hunting, my men and I came across a dozen spies from Damascus, sent here by Emir Unur to gauge the strength of our forces. Their presence in our lands is an outrage, a violation of our treaty with the emir, and they fled at the sight of us. We gave chase, and three fell to our swords. By the Grace of God we captured four more!’ The men roared their approval.

‘Now, I have heard talk amongst you of our enemy, of their bravery, their skill, their ruthlessness,’ Reynald continued. ‘I have heard men say they are monsters, savage beasts.’ He turned slowly around the circle, meeting the eyes of his men. ‘But today you will see that the Saracens are no monsters. They are men of flesh and blood. And they die like any other man!’ He turned and called out over the crowd: ‘Bring forth the prisoners!’

The crowd turned as the four prisoners approached. They had been stripped of their armour and wore only flimsy linen loincloths. They were unarmed, but Reynald was taking no chances: the prisoners were led by a man-at-arms, sword drawn, and followed by two more soldiers carrying spears. As the Saracens approached, the assembled soldiers jeered and shouted insults at them. The first prisoner was tall and lanky, with olive skin and long black hair that hung well past his shoulders. The second was shorter, spare and compact. He was older, with a greying beard and a pronounced limp, left by some old wound. The third Saracen was a huge man; a good head taller than John, with a round chest like a beer barrel, an ample belly, and upper arms as thick as John’s legs. He was bald, and his head glistened in the sun. The last man was dark-skinned and solidly built, with thickly muscled arms and a broad chest criss-crossed with scars. Of all the prisoners, he alone walked straight-backed, his head held high.

The prisoners reached the ring, where they were lined up before Reynald. He examined the four men for a moment, then placed himself in front of the huge Saracen. The other prisoners were led off to the side, where they stood shifting their weight as they eyed the menacing crowd around them. Meanwhile, Reynald had retreated to the edge of the ring and grabbed a sword. He threw it at the feet of the giant Saracen, who picked it up cautiously, as if he feared some trick.

‘Ernaut, you hairy oaf!’ Reynald yelled. ‘This fat-arse is yours.’

Ernaut pulled on his helmet and stepped forth to face his adversary. As Ernaut drew his sword, Reynald turned the hour-glass. An excited clamour went up from the crowd as bets were laid on how long it would take Ernaut to dispatch the Saracen. A few men even took the long odds and bet on the Saracen to win. There was little chance of that. Ernaut was not quite as tall as the Saracen, but he was even broader. And whereas the Saracen had nothing but his sword to protect him, Ernaut carried a shield and wore full-length chainmail with plating on the chest.

‘Two coppers on Ernaut in under one turn!’ Rabbit shouted, waving the coins.

‘I’ll take that,’ a man behind him called.

Rabbit turned to face John. ‘Aren’t you going to bet?’ John shook his head. A fair fight was one thing, but he had little taste for this sort of blood sport. He had come to the Holy Land for redemption, not for this.

Ernaut stepped towards the centre of the ring, and the crowd whistled and jeered as the Saracen backed away. The men surrounding the ring drew their swords, poking at the Saracen and forcing him back into the centre of the ring, where Ernaut waited. As the Saracen inched forward, Ernaut launched an attack, thrusting for the huge man’s unprotected middle. But the Saracen was quicker than he looked. He parried Ernaut’s thrust, spun away and slashed at Ernaut, who barely raised his shield in time to deflect the blow. The crowd roared as the two men separated. John looked to the glass, which was nearly a quarter empty.

‘Finish him!’ someone yelled. Others who had bet on a quick end to the fight took up the cry. With a roar, Ernaut raised his sword over his head and charged, bringing his blade down in a deadly arc. At the last second the Saracen sidestepped the blow and with a cry of triumph slashed at Ernaut’s unguarded side. The blow should have killed him, but instead it glanced off his armour. Ernaut spun and struck out, catching the huge Saracen in the neck. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, blood gurgling in his throat. Then he dropped face first and lay unmoving, his blood pouring out to stain the dusty earth red. There were cheers and curses from the crowd as men settled up their bets. Reynald grabbed Ernaut’s hand and raised it high. ‘The victor!’ he roared. ‘A skin of my best wine for Ernaut tonight!’

Whilst the crowd cheered, John stepped forward and picked up the dead Saracen’s sword, testing the blade with his thumb. His suspicions were confirmed; the blade had been dulled. It would not cut through hardened leather, much less chainmail. The Saracen had been given no chance.

‘Give that here, Saxon,’ Reynald said, and John handed the sword over. Reynald turned again to the crowd. ‘Bring the next prisoner! The skinny one!’

The lanky Saracen was matched against Tybaut, the old bull of a man who had fought in the first crusade. Tybaut made short work of his opponent, parrying the young Saracen’s clumsy first strike and dispatching him with a quick counter-blow to the chest. The older Saracen was next, and Reynald fought the man himself. The Muslim warrior was a confident swordsman, and at first the fight seemed even as he and Reynald traded blows. But the Saracen’s limp made him a step slow. When Reynald pressed his attack, the Saracen stumbled, lowering his guard. He was standing just in front of John when Reynald finished him with a vicious blow, nearly decapitating the Saracen and spraying John with gore.

John wiped the blood from his face and looked at his hand, smeared with red. He closed his eyes as memories surged up inside him: his brother’s shocked face; the pommel of their father’s sword, engraved with the head of a lion; John’s own face and hands wet with hot blood. He turned away from the ring and started to push his way through the crowd.

‘You! Saxon!’ Reynald called. ‘Where do you think you’re going? It’s your turn.’

John stopped. Around him the men stepped back, opening a path back to the ring. John stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled with his dark memories. Perhaps this was how God had decided he would pay his blood debt; here, against this Saracen. He turned and strode back to the ring.

Rabbit’s nose twitched nervously as he presented John with his helmet. ‘Keep it,’ John said as he shed his shield. ‘And help me with my armour.’ Rabbit helped pull off the heavy coat of chainmail. John removed his tunic too, so that now he wore only his leather breeches and boots. His bare chest was already glistening with sweat under the intense sun. John drew his sword and stepped into the ring where the battle-scarred Saracen stood waiting for him.

Reynald stepped in front of John. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.

‘I’ll fight him fairly, or I won’t fight,’ John replied. Reynald looked from John to his opponent. John was lean and fit, but he was still smooth-faced, barely a man. His opponent was an experienced warrior, broad-chested and thickly muscled. Reynald shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. ‘Like you said, he’s only a Saracen, flesh and blood. I’ll handle him.’

‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’ Reynald stepped away, leaving John to face his opponent.

The Saracen swung his sword from side to side, testing its weight, and then stood still, his blade held low. John raised his own sword, holding it with both hands. His heart pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his face. He could hear men shouting in the crowd. ‘Five on the Saracen!’ ‘The Saracen in one turn of the sands!’ ‘Get on with it, bath-boy!’ Others began to shout his name, and gradually their voices merged into a chant: ‘Saxon! Saxon! Saxon!’

John took a step towards his opponent, and the Saracen moved sideways. John pivoted in the middle of the ring, while the Saracen circled around him. A drop of sweat stung John’s eye, and he blinked. Instantly, the Saracen attacked, his sword sweeping up from the ground and towards John’s groin. John parried, but no sooner had he blocked the blow than the Saracen spun away and launched another slicing attack at John’s head. John ducked the blade, but a moment later his face exploded in pain as the Saracen’s knee connected with his jaw. John stumbled backwards, stunned, and barely managed to deflect a wicked thrust aimed at his gut. The Saracen resumed circling.

John stood in the centre of the ring, breathing hard. His jaw was on fire, and he worked it side to side to make sure nothing was broken. The Saracen continued to circle, his sword pointed down towards the earth. John had never faced someone who fought like this: always spinning and circling. He had been trained to fight head-on, in a line. He thought back to the countless hours he had spent in practice with his father. John could hear the gravelly voice in his head: ‘Keep your distance, find a pattern, break him down.’

The Saracen attacked again, slicing up towards John’s face. John raised his sword, but at the last second the Saracen shifted his attack, cutting back down at John’s waist. John jumped backwards, and the tip of the blade missed him by inches. He chopped down at the Saracen, but the man was already spinning away. John’s sword bit into the dirt, and he barely brought it up in time to block a vicious blow aimed at his chest. The two swords locked, bringing him close to his opponent. The Saracen head-butted John in the face, sending him reeling backwards. John raised his sword to fend off another attack, but the Saracen had moved away, circling again.

John licked his lower lip and tasted blood, metallic and salty. His jaw clenched as anger rose in him, driving away the fear, the pain, and the sound of the chanting crowd until there was only him and his opponent. ‘Bastard!’ he snarled as he raised his sword and sprang forward, slashing at the Saracen’s side. The Saracen parried and spun away, swinging for John’s head as he did so. But this time John anticipated the move. He dropped to one knee to avoid the blade, then lunged forward, driving his sword at the Saracen’s gut. The Saracen just managed to deflect the blow, but not entirely. John’s blade slid past and sliced his adversary’s side, leaving a ragged crimson gash.

John stepped back, and this time he was the one to begin circling. His opponent, a grimace of pain on his face, stood holding his sword in one hand and clutching his side with the other, bright blood oozing between his fingers. John charged forward, stabbing at the Saracen’s chest. The Saracen parried, knocking John’s sword aside, and John reversed his blow immediately, swinging for his opponent’s neck. The Saracen ducked the attack and lunged at John, who sidestepped the blow and brought his sword down hard, knocking the Saracen’s blade from his hand. John kicked the sword away and stood facing his defeated foe. The Saracen sank to his knees, waiting for the blow that would finish him. John raised his sword, and as his anger faded, the roar of the crowd came rushing back to him. ‘Kill him!’ someone yelled. ‘Finish him!’

John hesitated. Honour and mercy, the virtues of a warrior: that was what his father had taught him. He had not come to the Holy Land to place more blood on his head. He lowered his sword and stepped away. ‘I spare you.’ The crowd booed.

‘Very chivalrous of you,’ Reynald said as he stepped past John. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword and brought it down on the captive’s neck, killing him instantly. The crowd roared its approval as Reynald hacked down again and again, severing the man’s head from his body. Reynald picked up the head and threw it to the cheering crowd. Then he turned back to John and put his arm around his shoulders. ‘You’re brave, Saxon; a man after my own heart. What’s your real name?’

‘Iain, my lord. Iain of Tatewic.’

Reynald frowned. ‘That’s no name for a knight.’ Franks could never get their mouths around ‘Iain.’

‘John, sir. You can call me John.’

‘Very well, then, John. You will come to the castle with me tonight, and you will meet our King.’

John spurred his horse as he followed Reynald into the courtyard of the palace of the King of Jerusalem. Reynald was dressed in leather breeches and a handsome green silk tunic. John wore his chainmail and crusader’s surcoat: the only clothes he owned that were fit for the occasion. They dismounted, handed their reins to the waiting servants and headed for an arched doorway at the far side of the courtyard.

A sentry at the door blocked their way. ‘Your swords, milords.’

‘The High Council meets tonight,’ Reynald explained to John as he unbuckled his sword belt. ‘Everyone of any importance will be here: the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the archbishops of Caesarea and Nazareth; the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital; the Kings of Jerusalem, Tripoli, France and the Holy Roman Empire, along with their leading nobles. If tempers get out of hand — and they inevitably will — then it is best that no one be armed.’

John handed over his sword and followed Reynald through a wide doorway and into the great hall. He stopped, dumbstruck. Thick, stone pillars — torches mounted in brackets affixed to their sides — ran down either side of the space, supporting a vaulted roof so high that the ceiling disappeared in the darkness. Chairs had been set up in the wide spaces between the pillars. They were filled with bishops in their robes, German and Frankish lords in simple linen tunics, and armoured Templar and Hospitaller commanders, all with their men standing behind them. In the centre of the hall the floor was thickly carpeted with rugs decorated in a dizzying profusion of geometric patterns. But all of this was as nothing compared to the finery of the men and women at the far end of the hall. The flickering torchlight glimmered against gold embroidery, flashed off rings sporting enormous rubies and amethysts, and shimmered on silk caftans in rich red, saffron yellow, bright green and deep sea-blue. At the centre of this luxury were a middle-aged woman and a young man, seated side by side on gilt thrones. The woman, dressed in scarlet silk and wearing a crown of interwoven strands of gold, had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but her long black hair had not a touch of grey. Her jaw was firmly set and her eyes were a piercing blue. The man, who wore blue silk and a heavier gold crown, looked to be half her age. He had a florid complexion, straight hair the colour of straw and a full beard of the same colour. He sat rigidly straight, repeatedly licking his lips.

‘They dress like bloody Saracens, don’t they?’ Reynald whispered. ‘That is King Baldwin of Jerusalem and his mother, Queen Melisende. Baldwin’s a good man, but don’t let his finery fool you. He and Melisende have been hounding our King Louis for money like two Jews. There’s our king, there.’ Reynald gestured to a youthful man in linen breeches and a green linen tunic fringed with silk. His long chestnut hair and thick beard disguised a rather weak chin. But what caught John’s eye was the woman on the king’s left. She was a beauty, with flawless alabaster skin, sharp cheekbones and long auburn hair that curled at the end. She glanced in John’s direction, and he saw that her eyes were of darkest amber. He looked away, embarrassed.

‘Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine,’ Reynald said with a smirk. He lowered his voice. ‘They say the slut has been sleeping with her uncle, Raymond of Antioch, that man there.’ He pointed across the hall to a handsome, square-jawed man with sparkling blue eyes. ‘I’m more interested in Eleanor’s cousin, Constance,’ Reynald continued, pointing past Raymond to a rather plump woman with a pug nose and close-set eyes. ‘She is the heir to Antioch. Whoever marries her will have his own kingdom.’ He paused. ‘Now come, let me introduce you to our king.’

Reynald led the way across the hall and bowed low before King Louis. John did the same. ‘I trust that everything is in place for tonight, Reynald?’ Louis asked. ‘You have Baldwin’s answer?’

‘I do indeed, sire. He is with us.’

‘Good.’

‘And who is this handsome knight that you have brought with you, Reynald?’ Eleanor asked. John fixed his gaze on the floor.

‘May I present John the Saxon?’

‘The knight who bested the Saracen captive today?’ Eleanor asked.

‘The same, my lady.’

‘You are far from home, John,’ Louis noted. ‘Tell me, how does a Saxon come to be in my service?’

John swallowed. ‘You-you fight for God, my lord. In serving you, I serve Him.’

Louis smiled. ‘I’m sure. And I’m sure you have no great love for your Norman king, either.’ Louis dismissed John with a wave of his hand and turned to speak to one of his courtiers. Reynald grabbed John by the elbow and led him to the side.

‘He spoke to you, a great honour,’ Reynald whispered. ‘The council is about to begin. The proceedings are in Latin. They will mean nothing to you.’

‘I speak Latin, my lord.’

Reynald arched an eyebrow. ‘You are full of surprises, Saxon. Very well. Wait in the back behind those columns. Say nothing and keep out of sight.’

John slipped into the shadows of the side aisle and took up a position at the end of the hall furthest from King Baldwin’s throne. He watched as a wrinkled, bald priest in white robes embroidered with gold walked to the centre of the hall and slammed the butt of his staff against the floor three times. ‘This council is now in session!’ he declared in Latin. He left the floor, rejoining the other religious men, amongst whom John noticed William of Tyre, the young priest he had met at the fountain on his first day in Acre.

King Baldwin spoke next. ‘Welcome knights, lords, men of God, kings and queens. You all know why this council has been called. A second crusade has come to our kingdom, led by valiant King Conrad and brave King Louis. Some say the object of this crusade should be the great city of Aleppo. Others wish to attack Damascus. Tonight, we shall decide.’ He paused and licked his lips. ‘I will now hear arguments.’

Conrad, a stocky, grey-haired German, rose to speak, but before he had said a word, a voice whispered in John’s ear. ‘I know you.’ John spun about to find himself face to face with a blond boy, perhaps three years younger than himself. The boy had pale blue eyes and an aquiline nose. ‘You’re the brave one, the knight who took off his armour before fighting the Saracen captive. I watched from the wall.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Amalric.’ The boy leaned close and dropped his voice even lower. ‘You know that the man you killed was no spy?’

‘What do you mean? Lord Reynald said he captured those men spying on our forces. He said they were Unur’s men.’

Amalric burst into sudden laughter, and John glanced about to see if anybody had noticed. Amalric’s mirth faded as quickly as it had come. ‘Palace rumour says differently. I heard that your Lord Reynald raided a small village this morning, a village within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He slaughtered everyone — men, women and children — and took those four “spies” as captives.’

‘But why?’

Amalric nodded towards the hall, where the handsome Raymond of Antioch had taken the floor. ‘You will see.’

‘Conrad says that we must march on Damascus,’ Raymond began. ‘Damascus is rich, as we all know. It sits on the trade route from the east to the Mediterranean, and both its markets and its coffers are always full. It is a great prize, but we must not be blinded by greed.’ There were cries of protest from Conrad’s and Louis’ men. Raymond continued, shouting over them. ‘Unur, the emir of Damascus, is our ally by treaty. He fears the growing power of Nur ad-Din in Aleppo, as should we. Do not forget that it was Nur ad-Din who led the army that conquered Edessa, and that Edessa’s fall is the very reason for this crusade. Each year, Nur ad-Din brings more cities under his control. His rise threatens us all — Tripoli, Acre, Jerusalem. Our kingdom survives only because the Saracens are divided-’

‘Not so!’ the Grand Master of the Templars called. He was a lean man, with short dark hair. ‘God protects us!’

‘Is that why you have spent God’s silver expanding your holdings and building fortresses, Everard, instead of spending it on the calling of your order — protecting pilgrims to the Holy Land?’

Everard flushed crimson. ‘How dare you? We built those castles to better protect God’s children!’

‘If you truly wish to protect His children, then you will do as I say!’ Raymond shouted back, struggling now to be heard over the clamour of the Templar knights and the German king Conrad’s men. ‘If we attack Damascus, then we will force Emir Unur to join with Nur ad-Din. We will be sewing the seeds of our own destruction!’ Raymond’s men stomped their feet in approval.

King Louis stood and waited for the rumbling to subside. ‘You speak of Unur as a great ally, a friend. You say he is bound to us by treaty. And yet, this very morning his spies were found outside our walls! This is not the act of a friend. Unur has pissed all over your precious treaty!’ Chaos erupted as Raymond’s men yelled out in protest, and Louis’s men shouted back. Louis raised his hand, calling for silence. ‘We would be fools to trust this godless heathen. If we march north on Aleppo, then what is to stop him from betraying us and attacking Jerusalem while we are gone?’

‘Hear, hear!’ Louis’ men were seconded by Conrad’s nobles and the Templars.

‘See!’ Amalric whispered to John.

John nodded. The ‘spies’ were a ploy to convince the council to move on Damascus. Reynald had held the tournament to eliminate the only witnesses. ‘How do you know these things?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’

Amalric placed a finger to his lips. ‘ Shhhh. ’ He nodded back towards the council floor. ‘There’s more. Watch King Baldwin.’

Baldwin was shifting nervously on his throne while Raymond concluded: ‘If we attack Aleppo, we can crush Nur ad-Din before he grows too powerful. But if we attack Damascus, we will force our enemies to join together.’

‘Then we can defeat them all at once!’ Conrad declared, and the assembled knights roared their approval.

Raymond turned from the German king in disgust. ‘What say you, Queen Melisende?’

The hall quieted. ‘This crusade was called to avenge the loss of Edessa,’ she said, her sharp voice filling the hall. ‘Taking Aleppo will stop Nur ad-Din and allow us to reclaim Edessa. I say we strike there.’

‘I say differently,’ King Baldwin declared. Melisende sat forward, clearly surprised. ‘Aleppo is far. Attacking it will leave our kingdom vulnerable. After today’s incident with Unur’s spies, I do not believe we can take such a risk. Damascus is close and rich. Once we take it, then we will have wealth enough to hire all the men we need. We will be able to take Aleppo at our leisure.’

‘You speak out of turn, Son,’ Melisende reprimanded.

Baldwin hesitated, his tongue flicking over his lips. He looked to King Louis, then to Reynald, who nodded encouragement. Baldwin swallowed and spoke: ‘No, mother. I am the King. It shall be as I say.’

‘To Damascus!’ King Louis shouted.

His cry was echoed throughout the hall. ‘ Damascus! Damascus!’

‘No! No! No!’ Raymond shouted, his face red. ‘You damned greedy bastards! If you move on Damascus, then you will do so without me!’ He looked to Baldwin. ‘Think well on that, King.’

All eyes turned to Baldwin. He said only one word. ‘Damascus.’ The hall exploded into confusion as half the men present roared their approval, the other half their anger. Fights broke out on the floor between Raymond’s and Louis’s men. In the confusion, Raymond stormed from the hall. John noted that Eleanor began to rise to follow him, but Louis grabbed her arm, holding her down.

Baldwin also left, striding down the middle of the hall. He stopped near the exit and turned to Amalric. ‘Come, Brother. We have work to do.’

Giving John a wink, Amalric followed Baldwin from the hall.

Shocked, John stood staring after the boy until Reynald came up and clapped him on the back. ‘Let’s get back to camp,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to pack for Damascus.’

‘Damascus,’ John whispered. Back in England, men returned from the first crusade had spoken of it as a fabulous city, second only to Jerusalem. ‘It will be a great victory for God.’

Reynald grinned. ‘Yes. And it will make us rich!’

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