Holy War

Chapter 8

April 1186: Jerusalem

John set the sheet of parchment back on the table and rubbed his eyes. He had arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before sunrise after a late night at the Abbey of Mount Sion. The abbey’s cellarer — a wiry, toothless old man who had been at the abbey long before any of the other brothers arrived — had died in mid verse during lauds. Selecting a new cellarer had proven no easy task. The prior, the treasurer and the sacristan all had their own candidates. John knew better than to choose amongst them. That would only make enemies of the men whose candidates had been rejected. In the end, he had chosen the kitchener. He was an honest man and a terrible cook. By making him cellarer, John would spare the brothers his cooking.

John picked up the parchment again and squinted at the rows of figures. They recorded the church’s monthly revenues: sheep, wool and grain from their land holdings; coin donated by worshippers or earned by the sale of pilgrims’ badges; more gold and silver from the shops, mills, ovens and markets that the church owned in Jerusalem; and money sent by pious overseas rulers who could not come to the Holy Land themselves. With Heraclius gone, John had charge of the church. There would be no more money wasted on silk robes and fine perfumes. He looked to the treasurer seated across from him. He was a portly man with sagging jowls and eyebrows like hedgerows.

‘Only forty-seven sheep?’

‘It has been a brutal summer, Archdeacon. The shepherds had to slaughter much of their flocks, or lose them.’

‘I see.’ John gave the figures a final glance and set them aside. ‘Store the grain. Set ten sheep aside for the Feast of the Assumption. Sell the rest at market, and the wool, too. Half the coin should be used to buy provisions. The cellarer may use his discretion, but I want foodstuffs that will last. The rest should go to hiring more sergeants.’ The Holy Sepulchre owed a thousand men to the king’s service, but it had not provided that number for some years. John would remedy that.

The treasurer’s forehead creased, bringing his bushy grey eyebrows together. ‘What of the canons, Archdeacon? Their monthly prebends are due.’

John scowled. The canons would have little enough use for that money if they were dead. But he knew better than to withhold their pay. He might wake with a knife in his belly. ‘Pay them.’

‘The roof of the chapel of Saint Helen is leaking.’

‘We will deal with it later.’

‘Two plates were broken last week in the refectory, and two spoons are missing from-’

‘Later. All of it later. We need soldiers, not spoons. Is there anything else?’

‘No, Archdeacon.’

‘Then you are dismissed.’

John pulled on his cloak and preceded the treasurer out the door. He left the archdeacon’s residence and stepped into the street south of the church just as the sun rose above the gilt roof of the Templum Domini. John walked the other way, past the pig market and south to the palace. The guards at the gate stepped aside for him. He entered and went to the chancellery, a large room dominated by an oak desk. The shelves lining the walls were bowed under the weight of papers and tomes. John sat in a wooden chair, its seat well worn from use. A stack of correspondence had been placed on the table. John checked the pigeon post first. He unrolled a letter from Tripoli that reported Bedouin raids in the countryside. The next message was from Ascalon. Guy was hiring mercenaries; building an army. John reached for another of the tightly rolled scraps of paper. This one was from a spy in Aleppo. John read it, then left immediately for the king’s chambers.

‘Is the King receiving?’ he asked the guard at the door.

The guard nodded. ‘The regent Raymond is with him.’

John strode through the receiving room to the king’s bedroom. Morning sunshine slanted through an open window to illuminate young Baldwin, who lay abed under a thin linen sheet. The king was nine years old and small for his age. He was as pale as freshly shorn wool, with feverish cheeks. Baldwin had always been sickly, and he had only grown worse since becoming king a little over a year ago. The doctors feared he would not see his tenth birthday. On their advice, he would soon move his residence to Acre. It was hoped the wet sea air would quench the fire in his lungs.

Raymond sat on a stool beside the bed. The regent’s brow was creased and his back hunched, as if he carried the weight of the Kingdom. John was about to make that burden even heavier. He handed Raymond the message. The regent’s lips moved as he read.

‘By his wounds,’ Raymond whispered. He crumpled the paper in his hand. ‘Now it begins.’

‘What-’ Baldwin was stopped short by a fit of coughing. He clenched the sheets in his fists as his chest shook. The coughing subsided, and Baldwin spit bloody phlegm on to a cloth. ‘What begins, Uncle?’

‘Izz ad-Din, the emir of Mosul, has bent the knee to Saladin. The Saracen kingdoms are united.’

And we are not. Guy and Sibylla were gathering an army in Ascalon to seize the throne when Baldwin died. Balian of Ibelin and Reginald of Sidon were marshalling their own troops in order to press the claim of Sibylla’s sister Isabella and her husband Humphrey. Civil war was on the horizon.

Young Baldwin was wide-eyed. ‘What will we do, Uncle?’

‘I will deal with this, Your Grace. You must rest. You will need your strength in the days to come.’ Raymond rose and drew the curtains.

‘If Saladin invades, can I fight?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Will I have my own suit of armour?’

‘Of course, Your Grace. And your own sword, too. Sleep now.’

John followed Raymond into the receiving room and closed the door behind him. Raymond went to a side table and poured himself a cup of wine. ‘This is evil news, John. We must put our house in order before the truce with Saladin expires.’ He took a long drink. ‘I must pull Guy’s teeth, and Humphrey’s too.’

‘Publish Baldwin’s decree.’

Before his death, the elder Baldwin had drawn up a decree declaring that if the younger Baldwin died without an heir, Raymond was to rule as regent until the Pope and the kings of France and England decided between the claims of Sibylla and Isabella.

Raymond shook his head. ‘I can think of no better way to start a civil war. If I make the decree public, the barons will think I mean to seize the throne.’

‘Something must be done. The boy will not live long. You know it as well as I.’

‘I will call the Haute Cour and let the barons decide. They will choose Humphrey and Isabella.’

‘It is not their decision to make. Baldwin’s will is clear.’

‘Baldwin is dead, John. If he were alive now, he might think differently.’

‘We will never know. Humphrey is not yet twenty, and lost the one battle he fought. If we are to face Saladin, the Kingdom needs a strong hand. Baldwin knew this. He wrote the decree to buy us time. While the kings of England and France decide, Humphrey can learn to rule and you will protect the Kingdom.’

Raymond grimaced. He drained his cup. ‘I never wished to rule, but damn it, you are right, John. The Kingdom needs me. It’s all the more reason not to make the decree public. Now is not the time to show our hand. We must bide our time, and when the moment comes, move against Sibylla and Isabella before they can strike at us.’

August 1186: Acre

‘Hellfire,’ Raymond muttered. He and John were riding along a tree-lined stream at the head of five hundred sergeants. ‘Hellfire! God damn it!’ His outburst startled a host of sparrows from a nearby tree.

‘Easy, Raymond. It is a grave sin to take the Lord’s name in vain.’

‘What more can God do, John? Saladin in control of Mosul. Two kings dead in little more than a year.’ He shook his head. ‘These are dark times.’

It was not the first time during the journey from Jerusalem to Acre that Raymond had given voice to his sombre thoughts. John made no reply. There was nothing he could say to cheer his companion. Young King Baldwin had died three days earlier. Raymond and John had set out at once for Acre. They rode to pay their respects and to retrieve the body for burial at the Holy Sepulchre. More importantly, they would also secure the city and retrieve the crown and the royal seal. Without them, Sibylla or Isabella would have difficulty pressing her claim to the throne.

Raymond gestured to the valley that stretched to either side of the stream they were following. Canals channelled water away from the stream into green fields, where native Christian and Muslim peasants worked bare backed under the hot summer sun. Beyond the fields rose hills covered with olive trees. ‘Sometimes I fear we are not meant to hold these lands,’ the regent said. ‘Perhaps the Saracens have the right of it. Why else would God visit these afflictions upon us?’

‘Enough, friend,’ John told him with mock severity. ‘Soon enough you’ll be talking of fire and brimstone and shouting at your men to repent. You will leave us priests with nothing to do.’

The corner of Raymond’s mouth twitched, and he smiled. ‘You are right, John. Forgive me.’

They rode on in silence. The sun had sunk to hover huge and red before them when they finally left the hills and rode on to the coastal plain. They could already see Acre’s massive walls, which divided the promontory on which the city sat from the mainland. As they rode closer, John could make out flags on the towers that dotted the wall. There was the black cross of the Hospitallers and the red cross of the Templars. They headed for the Gate of Saint Anthony, over which flew the Jerusalem cross. There was no sign of Guy’s lions rampant or of Humphrey’s golden bull. That was good.

Raymond paused in the shadow of the gate and called to the captain of his men. ‘Ernault! Take three hundred of our men and take charge of the walls. Put another hundred on patrol around the city. The rest will come with me.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The brief ride to the palace stirred up old memories for John. It was his first time in Acre since he had arrived in the Holy Land thirty-eight years ago as a boy of sixteen. They passed the fountain where he had nearly come to blows with a native Christian that he had mistaken for a Saracen. They passed the bathhouse where he and Rabbit had bathed. Rabbit. John had not thought of the boy with the large ears and twitching nose in years. What had his real name been? He could not remember.

John followed Raymond into the palace courtyard. Their men trooped in after them. Ten took charge of the gate and the rest took up positions around the courtyard. As John and Raymond dismounted, Joscelin of Courtenay strode out to meet them. The seneschal’s wavy blond hair had been cut short, and there were dark circles under his sky-blue eyes. ‘Welcome to Acre, Lord Regent, Father Abbot,’ he greeted them.

‘Show us to the King,’ Raymond told him.

They passed through the palace entryway and down a dim hallway. ‘You will want to see his doctors as well,’ Joscelin said as he led them up a broad stairway. The implication was clear.

‘The boy was sickly, Jos,’ Raymond replied. ‘No one believes you had a hand in his death.’

‘They may not believe it, but some will find profit in spreading lies.’ They reached a door framed by two guards in mail. ‘Fetch the doctors,’ Joscelin told the men, and then pulled the door open.

Inside the room, the soft light of the setting sun shone through the open windows and illuminated the dead boy king. He was laid out on his bed. Raymond knelt at the bedside. ‘If only he had lived a few years longer,’ he said in a low voice, as if the king were sleeping and he feared to wake him.

‘The doctors say his heart stopped,’ Joscelin said. ‘I believe the crown was too heavy a burden for the boy.’

Raymond kissed Baldwin’s hand and rose. ‘Now it is my burden.’ He took a sheet of vellum from his vest and handed it to Joscelin. At the bottom, the document bore the king’s seal showing the Tower of David, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the dome of the Templum Domini, all surrounded by the words Civitas Regis regnum omnium — City of the King of Kings. ‘This decree is by the hand of the elder Baldwin, made before his death. I am to rule until a decision is made between his sisters Sibylla and Isabella. The Pope and the kings of France and England are to decide our next ruler.’

‘Hmm.’ Joscelin sucked at his lower lip. ‘That will take months, maybe years.’

‘I will write to England, France and Rome and urge them to quickly select Isabella,’ John said. ‘In the meantime, Raymond will summon Sibylla and Isabella to Jerusalem, where they will be kept under guard until a queen is chosen. We have sent the chamberlain Balian to Ascalon to fetch Sibylla, and the constable Amalric to retrieve Isabella from Nablus.’

Joscelin was sucking at his lip again. ‘Do you think that wise, Raymond?’

‘I must act firmly or risk civil war between Guy and Humphrey.’

‘Yes, but if you proceed as John suggests, then you will bring war as surely as night follows day. You know that there are those amongst the barons who believe you seek the throne. If you seize Jerusalem and Acre and put the rightful heirs under lock and key, then their suspicions will seem justified. The barons will turn against you. There will be war.’

‘I am no usurper, Jos.’

‘Then you should bend your knee before your rightful queen.’ Joscelin gestured to the window.

John could hear the clatter of hooves. He looked out to see fifty knights ride into the courtyard, followed by over two hundred sergeants on foot. The lions rampant and silver crosses of Guy flew above them. A knight shouted for Raymond’s men to lay down their arms. One of Raymond’s men drew his blade and there was a brief struggle. When it was over, four men lay dead, their blood staining the stones red. The rest of Raymond’s men had been herded into a corner.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Raymond hissed.

Joscelin only nodded to the courtyard below. The knights dismounted and knelt. A moment later, Sibylla rode into the courtyard with Guy at her side.

John grabbed Joscelin by the collar and slammed him against the wall. ‘What have you done?’ he growled. ‘What did she promise you?’

Raymond pulled John away from Joscelin, who spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘Why, John! You wound me. I seek no more benefit than the health of the Kingdom. I know as well as you the threat Saladin poses. Now is no time for civil war. We must unite behind our queen. Come, let us go and meet her.’ Joscelin went to the door, but neither John nor Raymond moved. ‘Or shall I have the guards bring you?’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Raymond muttered.

The guards at the door fell in behind the men as they left the room. They met Sibylla and Guy in the palace entryway. Joscelin went to one knee. ‘My queen.’

‘Kneel before your queen,’ the guard behind Raymond growled.

‘I see no queen here.’

The guard swung the shaft of his spear and struck Raymond in the back of the legs, dropping him to his knees. The other guard did the same to John.

‘Enough!’ Sibylla snapped. She went to Raymond and offered him her hand. Raymond ignored it as he got to his feet. ‘I apologize,’ Sibylla said sweetly. ‘That was not necessary.’

John also stood. ‘Save your false courtesies. We know your true nature. You are a murdering bitch. You have no right to the throne.’

Sibylla turned her icy blue eyes on him. Her tone was now decidedly less friendly. ‘Silence, priest. I have not forgotten your part in having me exiled to Ascalon. Were it not for Jos, I would have your head on a pike already. But he believes you may be useful. I warn you, though: if you do not cooperate, then I will be only too happy to see you killed.’

‘Poisoned? As you poisoned your mother?’

‘No. A hangman’s noose should do for the likes of you.’ She returned her attention to Raymond. ‘The priest is wrong. As Amalric’s eldest child, I have every right to the throne. The Patriarch agrees. Heraclius has returned from France and will crown me queen in one week’s time.’

‘The barons will not stand for it,’ John protested.

Sibylla nodded ever so slightly, and guards grabbed John’s arms and dragged him into the corner. He began to struggle, but Raymond shook his head.

‘The barons have already agreed,’ Sibylla continued. ‘Reynald, Reginald of Sidon, my husband Guy and Humphrey have given their assent, as has Joscelin, the new Lord of Toron.’

So that was why Joscelin had betrayed Raymond. John shot him a hard look. Joscelin shrugged. ‘Do not act so indignant, John. The Queen has seen fit to reward me for my years of good service, nothing more.’

‘You, Raymond, are the only great lord who has yet to swear loyalty,’ Sibylla concluded.

‘And I never will.’ Raymond gestured to Guy. ‘I will die before I see this fool on the throne.’

Guy’s face turned crimson. He reached for his sword, but Sibylla touched his arm. ‘I am not unreasonable, Raymond,’ she said. ‘Many of the barons feel as you do. I have agreed to divorce Guy, if they acknowledge my right to rule.’

Raymond looked to Guy. He nodded curtly. ‘It is for the good of the Kingdom.’

‘And what of Baldwin’s will?’ John asked.

‘Baldwin was a fool,’ Joscelin cut in. ‘The kings of England and France are always at one another’s throats. If Henry claimed a glass was half full, Philip would go to war to prove that it was half empty. They will never agree on a ruler for the Kingdom.’

‘Nor should they,’ Guy added. ‘Why should men who know nothing of the Kingdom choose our queen? Sibylla is the elder. That should be an end to the matter.’

‘And after you take the throne?’ Raymond asked Sibylla. ‘A woman cannot rule alone. You will need a husband to lead our armies in war. Who will rule beside you?’

It was Joscelin who answered. ‘The other barons have agreed that Sibylla will choose her new husband.’

‘I see.’ Raymond drew his sword and a dozen other blades hissed from the scabbard as Sibylla’s men also drew. Sibylla had not moved. Her eyes were locked with Raymond’s. After a moment, he knelt and laid his sword at her feet. ‘My sword and the arm that wields it are yours, my queen. I will serve you.’

All eyes turned to John. His heart was pounding and his palm itched for the feel of his mace. He wanted to fight, but that would only get him killed. He dropped to one knee. ‘As will I.’

‘Good.’ Sibylla’s features softened. She smiled, and for a moment, John saw her mother in her. The thought both encouraged and frightened him. ‘Now come. We have a coronation to plan.’

September 1186: Jerusalem

John sat in his stall in the choir of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and watched as Heraclius held the crown of the kingdom over Sibylla’s head. The patriarch was dressed in spectacular white robes that glittered with gold and jewels. A jewel-encrusted mitre sat atop his head. John could smell his heavy perfume from a dozen feet away. In contrast, Sibylla’s royal robes of red silk seemed plain. She stood straight-backed looking out on the audience of nobles and great merchants. Her long auburn hair had been plaited to form a wreath around her head, where the gold crown would sit.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ Heraclius declared in nasal tones that echoed off the limestone walls and vaulted ceiling. ‘I pronounce you Sibylla, first of her name, Queen of Jerusalem.’ He lowered the crown on to her brow. John knelt in his stall, and the canons followed his example. The crowd beyond the colonnade that separated off the sanctuary had also knelt. John spotted Guy in the front ranks. He was dressed like Sibylla in robes of red silk and wore a smug smile on his face. Sibylla had made Heraclius annul their marriage, as promised, but Guy had been allowed to keep his lands in Ascalon and Jaffa. Reynald was beside him, while only a few feet further along the colonnade Raymond knelt. The Count of Tripoli’s brow was furrowed and his mouth stretched in a thin line. He had worn the same pained expression ever since he had sworn fealty to Sibylla.

The sound of booted feet on the marble floor brought John’s attention back to the sanctuary. Balian, the royal chamberlain, strode to the edge of the sanctuary and raised his voice. ‘Long live the Queen!’

‘Long live the Queen!’ the crowd echoed, and John with them. It was the third monarch he had seen crowned. The elder Baldwin had reigned only eleven years. His nephew had sat on the throne for scarcely more than a year. John wondered how long Sibylla’s rule would last.

The queen strode forward to stand beside Balian. Heraclius followed. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘Her Highness wishes to address her people.’

John tensed. This was unusual. Customarily, the patriarch would now pray over the new monarch and deliver a sermon urging her to rule righteously. Those in the crowd who had started to leave early for the coronation feast stopped and turned back towards the sanctuary.

‘My people!’ Sibylla began. ‘By the grace of God, I have been crowned. I did not seek the throne, but God called me, and I am not one to turn aside from my duty.’ There were sniggers amongst the people. Sibylla glared at them and continued. ‘Now, I am your queen, and I must choose the man who shall rule beside me, who will offer his wisdom in council and his steel to defend our kingdom.’

Sibylla paused to allow the suspense to build. There were murmurs in the crowd. No doubt they were as surprised as John. He had thought Sibylla would take her time, maybe choosing a French or English husband who could bring desperately needed money and men to the Kingdom. John noticed some of the single barons in the crowd leaning forward in anticipation, hoping she might choose them.

‘I choose — ’ a smile played at the corner of the Queen’s mouth — ‘the lord of Ascalon and Jaffa!’

‘No,’ John murmured under his breath. There were gasps in the crowd.

‘Rise, Guy of Lusignan!’ Sibylla continued as if oblivious to the consternation she had caused. ‘Join me.’

A broad smile on his face, Guy stood and strode through the colonnade that separated the crowd from the altar and the choir. There were scattered cries from the barons of ‘No!’ and ‘This cannot be!’ Guy stopped before Sibylla, and she signalled brusquely to Heraclius. The patriarch brought forth a second crown. Sibylla took it and held it over Guy’s head.

‘Stop!’ Raymond shouted. He stepped forward and gripped one of the thin, ornate columns of the colonnade. ‘You cannot, Sibylla! You swore an oath!’

‘I swore to divorce my husband, and I did. I did not swear not to remarry him.’ She lowered the crown on to Guy’s brow. ‘Guy of Lusignan, I pronounce you King of Jerusalem!’

Raymond’s face had gone purple with rage. He started towards Sibylla, but two of his liegemen held him back. ‘This will not stand!’ he shouted before turning and storming from the church. John took careful note of those who followed: Balian of Ibelin, Reginald of Sidon and, after a moment’s hesitation, Humphrey of Toron. If John were to undo Sibylla’s scheme, he would need those men. He rose and headed for the night stair at the back of the sanctuary.

‘Archdeacon!’ the precentor hissed. ‘The service is not yet complete.’

John did not stop. He had more important business to attend to.

The cross hanging from John’s neck glinted in the light shed by the crescent moon as he waited outside the gate of the Abbey of Mount Sion. John had one hand on the cross; in the other he held his mace. It was just past midnight. From inside the abbey, he could hear the brothers chanting nocturnes.

A form emerged from the darkness — a man in a black cloak with a hood over his head. He was framed by two soldiers in mail. John’s grip on the mace tightened. ‘Who goes there?’ he asked, speaking as loudly as he dared.

‘It is I.’ The voice belonged to Raymond.

‘Were you seen leaving the palace?’

‘I think not.’

‘Good.’ John rapped softly at the gate — two knocks, then another, then three more. The gate opened a crack. ‘The Queen is in Nablus,’ John whispered, and Aestan pulled the gate open. The sergeant wore mail and had a sword in his hand. ‘Aestan will show you to the crypt,’ John told Raymond. ‘Your men can wait in the courtyard. The others will join you soon, God willing.’

Balian came next. He greeted John with a smile and slipped through the gate. Then came Reginald. ‘I am too old for this skulking about,’ he grumbled in greeting. The few hairs Agnes’s former husband had left had greyed long ago.

‘I am glad you came,’ John told him.

‘Hmph. Is Humphrey here?’

‘He will arrive soon.’

‘I pray he does, or you are risking our necks for nothing.’ Reginald went inside, leaving John to wait.

The brothers finished chanting nocturnes, and still Humphrey did not come. John began to pace. Finally, he heard footsteps. A lone figure strode towards the gate. He stepped into a pool of moonlight, which illuminated fleshy cheeks and a weak chin. Humphrey. He looked more a prosperous merchant than a king, yet all their hopes rested on him.

‘Thank God you have come,’ John greeted him.

‘John, I must-’

‘Best to talk inside.’

Once they were inside the gate, John turned to Aestan. ‘Keep a careful watch. No one is to enter. No one.’

‘Yes, domne.’

John led Humphrey across the courtyard and into the church. Dark shadows shifted in the flickering light shed by a candle on the altar. John took the candle and led them down narrow steps beneath the apse. At the bottom, they found themselves in a tunnel cut into the rock on which the church was built. John moved forward, stooping to avoid bumping his head. A door appeared after a few feet. The man guarding it nodded to John and pulled it open. John and Humphrey stepped into the church’s crypt. It was a small room with burial niches cut into the walls. Half of them were occupied with stone sarcophagi holding the remains of former abbots. One day, John would be buried with them.

But tonight his business was with the living. Raymond, Balian and Reginald waited around a stone table. As the guard shut the door, all eyes turned to John. He had summoned them. It was for him to speak first. He took a deep breath.

‘Thank you all for coming. You know why I have asked you here. We agreed to make Sibylla queen on the condition that Guy would not take the throne beside her. She has betrayed her promise to us. We cannot allow this outrage to stand. The Kingdom is in greater danger than ever before, and Guy is not the man to defend it from Saladin.’

Everyone but Humphrey nodded. ‘Fit or not, Guy has been crowned,’ he said.

‘An empty gesture,’ John replied. ‘Until he remarries Sibylla, he is no king. We must not let that marriage happen.’

Reginald rubbed his bald head. ‘She is queen now. That ceremony was valid enough. And we promised she could pick her husband. I do not like it any more than you, John, but if we move against her, we are committing treason.’

‘No,’ Raymond said. ‘We are protecting the Kingdom. John is right; Guy is no leader of men. He changes his mind each time the wind blows. If we allow him to remain on the throne, then we betray our oaths to defend the people.’

Reginald looked from Raymond to John. ‘What would you have us do? Rebel? We dare not. Saladin controls Mosul now.’

‘All the more reason to act now,’ John countered swiftly. ‘Saladin is coming for Jerusalem. Do you want Guy in command when he arrives?’

‘The truce still has two years to run,’ Humphrey noted.

‘When Guy was regent, he did not rule two months before he set Reynald to violate our treaty with Saladin. Do you want to risk it happening again?’

‘What is our alternative?’ Balian spoke now. ‘Raymond as regent again?’

Raymond shook his head. ‘I have no wish to rule, nor do I have a claim.’

‘Humphrey does.’ John turned to the young man. ‘You are married to Sibylla’s sister Isabella. Your forefathers have served the Kingdom faithfully since the beginning. It should be you on the throne.’

John’s pronouncement was met with silence. He stepped back from the table. He has said his part. Now it was up to them.

Reginald rubbed his head again. He turned to Humphrey. ‘I knew your grandfather, the constable Humphrey. He was a great warrior and an honest man. If you are half the man he was, then you will be a worthy king. If you make a bid for the throne, I will support you, Humphrey.’

‘As would I,’ Balian echoed. Raymond nodded his assent. All eyes turned to Humphrey.

‘I–I do not know,’ he ventured. ‘It is Sibylla who has been crowned, not Isabella.’

‘And what sort of queen will Sibylla be?’ Raymond demanded. ‘She has stripped your ancestral lands from you and given them to Joscelin. Will you allow her to disgrace your family?’

‘I was compensated for Toron.’

Reginald snorted. ‘With gold. Is your honour for sale, then?’

Humphrey bristled. ‘Do not speak to me of honour, old man. Reynald is my father-in-law, and he supports the Queen. Would you have me turn against my own kin? Is that the honour of which you speak?’

‘And what of your wife, my stepdaughter?’ Balian asked. ‘She is your kin, too. Would you deny her the throne that is rightfully hers?’

Humphrey said nothing. He began to fidget with the clasp of his cloak.

‘Speak, man!’ Reginald urged.

‘I tried to tell you earlier, John. I–I cannot. Sibylla and Guy have been crowned before the eyes of man and God. It is not for me to undo what God has done.’ He took a candle from the table and left the room. John could hear his footsteps echoing on the steps up from the crypt.

Reginald cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it is for the best. The boy is not his grandfather. He has no backbone.’ Reginald raised the hood of his cloak. ‘I am off to bed, sirs. I must rise early tomorrow to lick Guy’s royal arse.’

‘Reginald speaks true,’ Balian said. ‘We must all make peace with the King.’ He followed Reginald out.

Raymond placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘You tried, John.’

‘I failed. What will you do?’

‘I will not swear loyalty to Guy, no matter what threats he levels.’

‘There will be more than just threats. He will come for you.’

‘My castle at Tiberias is strong.’

‘Not strong enough to hold against the army of the Kingdom. You need allies.’ John took a deep breath, for what he was about to say was treason. Yet he saw no other way. ‘Saladin would support you.’

Raymond looked as if he had been slapped. ‘No, John. I will not betray the Kingdom.’

‘Nor would I ask you to. Ally with Saladin to protect your lands, nothing more.’

Raymond rubbed his beard. ‘I will think on it. What of you, John?’

‘There is no future for me in Jerusalem. Sibylla wishes me dead. She has made no secret of that. I will come with you, if you will have me.’

‘You are always welcome in my hall.’ Raymond forced a smile. ‘Perhaps fortune will smile on us yet. As Humphrey said, the truce with Saladin still has two years to run. Much can happen in two years.’