Holy War

Chapter 15

December 1189: Tatewic

John sat at a simple oak desk, the accounts for the grange open before him. The previous overseer — a layman hired by the abbey — had kept poor records. John suspected the man had been stealing. If so, that was only one of the sins for which he was, no doubt, suffering in hell. John had learned from the miller — a talkative man who was happy to gossip so long as John bought his ale — that the previous overseer had died of an attack of apoplexy while fucking the blacksmith’s wife. Her screaming had drawn half the village, including her husband, who the miller assured John had been busy buggering one of the acolytes from the abbey.

John squinted at the rows of numbers and made a notation. He set the quill aside and rubbed his hands, trying to bring warmth back to his aching knuckles. It was no use. He rose and added another log to the fire. He poked at the blaze until it was roaring merrily, but still the chill in the room remained. The grange was a fine home with a study, a well-appointed bedroom, a great hall and a separate kitchen, but the thick stone walls made it as cold as a tomb.

Something howled outside. It sounded like a baby crying. John went to the window and pushed open the shutters. Snow was falling, and the square below was blanketed in white. On the far side was a pack of boys, some not yet old enough to help in the fields, others with downy cheeks. They stood in a semicircle before the wall of the miller’s house, where they had nailed up a cat by its tail. The poor animal was hissing and thrashing, its claws scrabbling against the wall as it sought to free itself. One of the boys stepped forward and head-butted it. He came away with a bloody gash on his cheek. The other boys cheered. The cat howled.

John closed the shutters. He did not need to see more to know how the boys’ sport would end. They would butt the cat until it died, and whoever killed it would be declared the victor. It was a savage game. John had played it himself when he was a child. He had been a savage, too. He grimaced. Since returning to England, he sometimes felt like a man living amongst beasts. A very, very cold man. He returned to the fire and his hands began to tingle as they slowly thawed. He had cursed the heat of the Holy Land more times than he cared to remember, but the cold was much worse. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing on the sandy shore south of Acre and looking out over the clear turquoise waters of the harbour. He could almost feel the hot sun beating down, its warmth balanced by the cool sea breeze.

There was a tentative knock on the door. ‘Enter!’ John called.

It was his servant, Caesarius. The boy was a novice from the abbey, and he could hardly have had a more ill-fitting name. Caesarius was a gangly lad, forever tripping over his own feet, and he was so shy that he could hardly string together more than three words when in John’s presence. He set a bowl of stew down on the table and hurried from the room without a word.

John sat and poked at the stew with his spoon. Turnips, carrots and some sort of boiled meat were floating beneath a thick film of grease. He knew it was better than most of the villagers ate, but just looking at it made his stomach turn. He sometimes found himself dreaming of fresh mangoes and oranges, of spiced lamb and thin, crisp bread. If he had the coin to take ship, he would have returned to the East months ago, but he was not about to trek across Europe, not again. His trip north had nearly killed him.

This stew looked likely to finish the job. John pushed the bowl away and donned his heavy cloak. Outside, the air was so cold it burned his lungs. His boots crunched in the snow, and he left fresh tracks behind him as he crossed the square. The boys had finished their sport. Only one remained. He was furtively carrying the dead cat away.

‘You there! What are you doing?’

The boy froze. He looked to be no older than ten, with saucer-like eyes and smooth cheeks marked by the cat’s claws. ‘I–I was going to bury it,’ he murmured.

‘Bless you, son.’ John made the sign of the cross and continued to the door of the miller’s house. He knocked.

The fat-cheeked miller Edgar greeted him with a smile. ‘John! Come in, come in.’

John hung his cloak by the door and sat before the fire crackling in the hearth. The miller’s food was no better than John’s, but at least it was warm here. And Edgar’s wife brewed a fine ale.

‘Let me get you something to drink,’ the miller said.

‘That would be kind of you.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Edgar stepped into the next room but continued talking. ‘I’m glad you came, John. My wife is visiting her sister up in Thurcroft. Mabil is pregnant.’ Edgar crossed himself as he returned with a tankard in hand. ‘A winter babe. God help it.’ He took a hot poker from the fire and dipped it in the ale, which foamed over the sides. He handed the tankard to John and sank into the chair beside him.

John sipped at the warm brew. It was rich and sweet, with a bitter aftertaste and a hint of spice. John raised his eyebrows. ‘Cinnamon?’

Edgar grinned. ‘And a touch of honey and ground ivy.’

‘Where on earth did you find cinnamon?’

‘I have my ways.’ Edgar’s smile faded. He took a sip from his own tankard. ‘Mabil’s child. . if it dies early, will you baptize it, John?’

John nodded. Baptizing the dead was a common enough practice. No mother wanted her child to go to hell, so the babes were brought to priests who waited for a sign of life — sweating or movement — and then quickly baptized the child. The parents could then bury it with a clear conscience. John had seen enough dead men to know that the signs of life were nothing of the sort, but he was happy to provide what comfort he could.

‘Good, good. That will put my wife’s mind at ease.’ Edgar took another drink. ‘How is the grange, Father?’

‘Cold.’

‘Hah! That it is. The man who built it was a fool. I told him those glass windows were good for nothing.’ Edgar took up a poker and stirred the fire, sending sparks racing up the chimney. ‘Ah well, nothing a fire and warm ale can’t fix, eh?’

‘Amen.’ John took a long drink.

There was a knock on the door, and it swung open, bringing with it a swirl of snowflakes. Caesarius stood uncertainly in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

‘Don’t just stand there, boy!’ Edgar cried. ‘Get inside.’

‘What is it, Caesarius?’ John asked as the boy closed the door.

‘Your — your-’ Caesarius’s gaze fell to the floor. He licked his lips and started again. ‘Your brother has returned, father.’

‘He is in the castle?’

The boy nodded.

‘My thanks for the ale, Edgar.’ John retrieved his heavy cloak from beside the door. ‘Caesarius, see that the fire in my room stays lit. I want it roaring when I return.’

Outside, the snow was falling so heavily that it had already filled Caesarius’s footsteps. John trudged through the storm to the manor. The guard at the gate nodded to him. ‘He’s in the hall, father.’

John found Caelin slouched in his seat at the end of the table. A bowl of stew sat untouched before him. He had a mug of ale in hand, and he took a long drink as John entered the hall. Last spring Caelin had left for France to join King Henry in battle against his son, Richard. He had left on a sunny spring day and had been in high spirits. He had ridden a magnificent chestnut destrier, and his mail had been scoured so that it gleamed to match his bright smile. Now his armour was rusted and rent at the shoulder. An angry scar ran down his right cheek.

‘Brother!’ Caelin called. He was missing his two top front teeth. He took another swig from his mug. ‘Sit. Eat. I have no stomach for food.’

John sat beside him and glanced at the stew. ‘I am not hungry.’

‘Ale for my brother!’ Caelin ordered.

A young boy came forward with a mug. John accepted the warm ale gratefully and took a long drink. ‘What has happened to you, Brother?’

‘Have you not heard? The King is dead.’

‘News travels slowly. We heard rumours.’

‘It is more than rumours. In June, we met to parlay with Richard and King Philip of France. They offered outrageous terms, which Henry refused. We returned to Le Mans.’ Caelin shook his head and took another drink. ‘A truce had been called for the parlay. Richard attacked before it ended. We were caught unprepared. Richard broke into Le Mans and set it afire. We fled, but Richard and Philip caught up to us at Ballans. They crushed us. Afterwards, Richard forced Henry to recognize him as his heir instead of John. Two days later, Henry was dead.’

‘At Richard’s hand?’

‘Henry was old, but he was not dying, not until Richard drove him from Le Mans in the midst of a raging storm. Henry took ill, and he never recovered. Richard may not have struck him down, but make no mistake, he killed his father.’ Caelin drained the mug and slammed it down on the table. ‘More ale!’ The servant boy hurried forward with a mug, sloshing ale as he set it on the table.

‘So Richard is king?’

Caelin nodded. ‘And a right bastard he is, too. His men call him C?ur-de-lion, Lionheart.’ Caelin snorted. ‘But the man has no heart.’

‘The brothers at Roche Abbey say he is a religious man.’

‘His only religion is blood and steel. Richard has taken the cross, but do not think it is for God. He is using his crusade as an excuse to squeeze his father’s allies dry. He would not let me leave court until I paid him a hundred pounds.’

‘But he will march for Jerusalem?’

‘Aye. He is in London now, collecting coin and men. An army of cut-throats and murderers, if you ask me. He’s promised a full pardon to any who take the cross. The gaols of Wales and England have emptied.’ Caelin shrugged and took a long drink from the fresh mug of ale. ‘I suppose a few more thieves hardly matter; most of his knights are brigands.’

A crusade. This was John’s chance to return to the Holy Land. ‘Do you suppose Richard would take a priest?’

Caelin set his mug down and gripped John’s arm with surprising urgency. ‘Do not think of taking the cross, John. You do not want to serve under Richard. He is a man without honour.’

John thought of Reynald and Guy. ‘I have fought for men without honour before. God can use even the basest of tools to achieve his purposes.’

Caelin released John. ‘If the grange does not please you, Brother, then I will find you another residence. You are always welcome in my hall.’

‘It is not the grange, Caelin; it is England. I am a stranger here. My place is in the East. Richard is going there, and I mean to join him.’

Caelin gave his brother a long look. He nodded. ‘Very well. I will see that you are fitted out with armour, weapons and enough coin to see you to London.’ He shook his head again. ‘God save you, Brother.’

January 1190: London

John smelt London long before he saw it. The damp air over the Thames was heavy with the reek of decaying waste, rotting meat, offal and shit, all overlaid with the sharp scent of wood smoke. He wrinkled his nose. The captain of the small merchant ship noticed and laughed. He was a red-cheeked man with thin arms and an enormous belly. ‘You should smell her in the summer, priest. Today she’s sweet as a rose by comparison.’

John had ridden the short distance to Hull, from where he had taken a ship, preferring to chance the winter seas rather than the muddy roads leading to London. The captain had hugged the coast, and the voyage had passed uneventfully. John spent most of it below decks retching. Better this, he had told himself, than weeks spent riding south through the bitter cold. After they entered the mouth of the Thames, his seasickness had abated and he had come on deck. He could see the Tower of London now, a massive keep looming above grey walls on the north bank of the river. A ray of sunshine escaped the clouds and illuminated the keep, causing it to shine like fresh snow.

‘The White Tower,’ the captain said. ‘Newly built of limestone. A pretty site, but I wouldn’t want to go there. Richard uses it as a prison for those who displease him.’

Beyond the Tower, the city of London squatted behind its walls. It was a jumble of wood and stone houses and taller church towers, all pressed up against one another. A bridge spanned the river, connecting London to Southwark across the Thames. The bridge was under construction. The section nearest the walls was built of stone and the rest of wood.

‘What are you doing?’ John asked the captain. The boat was angling away from the city and towards the south bank. ‘You promised to take me to London.’

‘And so I have. It’s cheaper to dock at Southwark, father. It’s only a short walk to the city.’

Men busied themselves about the deck, and the sails came down as the boat glided towards a pier. Sailors jumped ashore to tie the ship off. John waited until they had lowered the gangway. He crossed himself as he stepped on to the pier. The waterfront was crowded with sailors, merchants and whores. He shouldered his way into the crowd. Beneath his fur-lined cloak, he wore a coat of mail that his brother had given him, and most of the men and women in the crowd stepped quickly aside when they felt it. But one young whore, hardly more than a child, clung to his arm. She leered at John. ‘Fancy a fuck, good sir? I’m newly arrived from the country, fresh as new linen.’

John pulled away and pushed on. The crowd thinned as he left the waterfront behind. The streets of Southwark were paved, but the stones were slick with snow and filth. John stepped carefully as he made his way to the bridge. A stone gatehouse stood at its head. He joined the line of people tromping across the drawbridge that separated it from the town. When he reached the gate itself, a soldier in mail stopped him. ‘Two pence to cross on foot.’

John handed over the coins and shuffled forward with the crowd. The bridge was wide enough to accommodate sixteen men abreast, but the sides were lined with merchants’ booths and pedlars hawking their wares. In between, singers, fire-eaters and jugglers were entertaining the crowd. Near the middle of the bridge, John passed a barber pulling a man’s tooth before a crowd of onlookers. The barber was a bear of a man with muscled shoulders and meaty forearms covered in thick black hair. More hair protruded from the collar of his thick wool shirt. He grabbed hold of the man’s tooth with iron pinchers and jerked it free in one pull. His patient fell forward, blood dribbling from his mouth, while the barber held up the tooth for all to see.

After crossing the stone portion of the bridge, John entered the city. Narrow wooden houses crowded close on either side, casting the street in dark shadows. He stopped at the first intersection. A small stone church sat at the south-west corner. At the far end of the street to the right, he could make out the walls of the Tower of London. Ahead, the road ran straight through the city for as far as he could see. The street to his left curved slightly so that he could only see a short way up it. He had no idea where to go. A man with a white crusader’s cross sewn on his cloak stepped out of the church. He wore boiled leather beneath his cloak. A soldier. The man was clean-shaven and had a broad nose and full lips.

‘God keep you, good sir,’ John greeted him.

‘And you, sir,’ the man murmured as he made to pass on by.

John fell in beside him. ‘I see you have taken the cross. I also wish to join Richard’s crusade. Might you tell me where his army is gathering?’

The man stopped. He examined John and frowned. ‘I’ll tell you, but I don’t think they’ll take you, old man. Richard is looking for warriors — young, strong men.’ He nodded towards the street that curved away to the left. ‘Follow Watling Street out past Newgate. The army is camped north of the city on the banks of the Fleet.’

‘You have my thanks.’

The soldier grunted and continued on his way. John turned up Watling Street. Patches of melting snow dotted the way, and a mixture of night soil and God knows what else drained down the middle. John caught his reflection in a pool of murky water. His hair, more grey than blond now, had receded at his temples. Crow’s feet stretched out from the corners of his eyes and his forehead was marked by deep creases. When had he grown so old? He still remembered arriving in the Holy Land as if it were yesterday. He had been sixteen. That was forty-two years ago.

He continued up Watling Street and crossed a wooden bridge over a stream. The waters smelt foul, but women were washing clothes in them. A child scooped up a pail of water and lugged it away. Further on, the road branched. To the left it ran to a massive, half-finished church, the nave open to the elements at one end. He took the right branch and soon came to a vast square with half a dozen streets leading from it. In front lay a grain market where merchants haggled with farmers who had brought carts loaded with wheat or barley. John was halfway across the square when he heard a loud scream behind him, followed by shouting. He turned to see another market at the far end of the square. Four of the houses that bordered it were burning. A crowd had gathered before each of them, but the people were not attempting to extinguish the blaze. They were shouting at the occupants. One particularly strident voice reached John. ‘There’s a taste of hell for you, Jew!’ A man ran from one of the houses. His hair was on fire. The crowd closed on him, and he disappeared amidst swinging fists and kicking feet.

John turned away and went to the stall of the nearest grain merchant. Its proprietor was a thin, bald man with long fingers that had thick, red knuckles. He sat on a stool, huddled beneath thick furs. ‘What is happening?’ John asked.

‘The Jews.’ The merchant spat. ‘They sent men to the King asking to have their portion of the Saladin tithe decreased. The King turned them out. Someone at the palace gate struck one of the Jews, and a crowd gathered. I saw them parade by with one of the Jew’s heads. Bad for business, that.’ The merchant spat again. ‘The crowd isn’t content and has come looking for more Jews. They’re burning them out of their homes.’

John watched the buildings burn. The crowd was growing louder, shouting taunts. Suddenly, a man jumped from the second storey of one of the houses. He landed in the crowd, knocking three men down, and was up instantly and running. He managed to get free and sprinted down the street towards John. The crowd gave chase. The man flashed by. He was young and had a short black beard. He turned sharply and ducked into a church. The crowd gathered outside and shouted for him to come out. Finally, four men headed in after the Jew.

John thought of his friend, Ibn Jumay. The Jewish doctor had saved John’s life more than once. John would likely never see him again, but perhaps he could return the favour. He pushed through the crowd and into the church.

The interior was dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He walked forward between shadowy pews. There was the Jew, crouching behind the altar as the four men approached. Two of them wore leather armour and carried clubs. One wielded a cleaver. The fourth was in mail and held a sword.

‘Leave him be!’ John shouted. ‘That man has sought shelter in a house of God.’

The man with the sword turned. He was a handsome youth with long blond hair that framed an angular face. He was a lord. Over his mail he wore a velvet doublet emblazoned with the arms of his house: a field of ermine bordered with a band of scarlet containing six gold horseshoes. ‘This is no business of yours, old man,’ he snapped in French.

‘I am a priest, ordained by God. What happens in His house is my business.’

‘God don’t care about his sort, father,’ the man with the cleaver said. He wore a bloody butcher’s smock.

John took his mace from his belt. His voice was hard and edged with menace. ‘You will not shed blood in the house of God.’

‘Do not make us hurt you, grandfather,’ the young lord scoff ed.

‘You are welcome to try.’

The lord smirked. ‘I shall do quite a bit more than try.’

The butcher held back, but the other three advanced together, the lord flanked by the men in leather. John let them come. The man on the right swung his club for John’s head. John sidestepped the blow and grabbed the man’s arm. The lord lunged at John, and he swung the man he held on to the lord’s sword point. The man in leather screamed and fell to the floor, blood seeping between his fingers where he clutched his gut.

The young lord stood wide-eyed, staring at the blood on his blade. ‘I am a king’s man,’ he hissed. ‘You will pay for that with your life.’

John’s only response was to raise his mace.

‘Stop! This is a house of God!’ someone called behind him. He turned to see a thin man in white priest’s robes. John saw a flash of gold as the priest swung the heavy cross that he had taken from the altar, and then pain exploded in his temple and the world went black.

‘Get up!’

John started awake as the toe of a boot dug into his side. A man in mail stood over him; he was holding a torch. John squeezed his eyes shut against the light. His head was pounding. He felt just above his ear, where the priest had struck him. His hair was sticky with blood.

‘Get up!’ the guard said again. ‘The King wants to see you.’

John pushed himself to his feet. He was in a windowless room with smooth stone walls and a thick, iron-banded door. The guard led him out into a dim hallway. They went up a flight of stairs and down another hallway, this one with windows looking out on the Thames. John could see London in the distance, a haze of wood smoke hovering above it. He followed the guard up more stairs. The halls here were covered in thick carpets that swallowed up the sound of their footsteps. The guard stopped at a door decorated with flowery steelwork. He knocked. A square-jawed man with curly auburn hair and hard grey eyes answered.

‘The prisoner, milord,’ the guard said.

The man nodded and opened the door. John stepped into a small room with a beamed ceiling and walls hung with tapestries that depicted hunting scenes in bright colours. The room was dominated by a large table, which left barely enough space for the crowd of courtiers. A young man with a sparse red beard lounged against the window embrasure to John’s left while a stooped old man with pale, sagging skin leaned on the side of the table. The rest stood. They were hard men in the prime of life. Two were dressed in bishop’s robes. The others were lords with arms embroidered on their doublets. Amongst these last, John noticed a man with the same arms as the young lord he had confronted in the church. His hair was more white than blond and his cheeks more hollowed, but he had the young man’s same angular face. John guessed that this was his father.

Behind the table sat a man so handsome that he might be called beautiful. He was clean-shaven and strong-jawed, and had reddish gold hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were the blue of Acre harbour on a sunny day. He wore a thin circle of gold on his head. This was King Richard.

The man who had let John in took his arm and pulled him forward to stand before the table. ‘The prisoner you wished to see, Your Grace. The one who tried to save the Jew.’

‘And killed one of my son Henry’s men,’ the hollow-cheeked man said.

‘Your son killed him,’ John replied.

‘Liar!’

‘Enough, Walchelin.’ Richard’s voice was a rich baritone, and he spoke in the curt tone of one accustomed to command. The king looked to John. ‘You heard Lord de Ferriers. He claims you killed one of his men and threatened to kill his son in order to protect a Jew. He has asked for your head.’

‘The Jew had taken shelter in a church, Your Grace.’

‘What does that matter? Young de Ferriers was doing my bidding, and God’s work. I need gold for my crusade. I’ve already sold every lordship and parcel of land that I can find buyers for. I’d sell London itself if I could, but no one wants this shit-hole. So I need the Jews’ coin. I have asked for twenty-five per cent of what they own. They came to me wheedling and pleading that they be allowed to give less. Such impertinence must be punished. You can be sure the Jews from the rest of my kingdom will pay readily enough now.’

‘Evil done in God’s name is still evil, Your Grace.’

Richard smiled at that, showing even white teeth. ‘You are either a bold man or a fool to speak thus to your king. How are you called?’

‘John of Tatewic.’

‘From near Yorkshire, Your Grace,’ said the wrinkled old man leaning on the table.

‘And what brings you to this stinking cesspool of a city, John of Tatewic?’

‘I wish to join your crusade.’

The young man by the window laughed, though his green eyes showed no sign of mirth. Richard smiled again. ‘A crusader who loves Jews and an old man at that. What use would I have with you?’

‘I have spent most of my life in the Holy Land, Your Grace. I fought in King Louis’ crusade. I was at Hattin and at Jerusalem when it fell. I served as Archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and as Abbot of Mount Sion. I lived among the Saracens. I know the enemy you will fight and the lands on which you will fight them.’

Richard’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps I shall have to spare you after all.’

‘He is no abbot,’ Walchelin put in. ‘And I doubt if he has ever sailed beyond our shores. He lies to save himself, Your Grace.’

‘We will know the truth of it soon enough.’ Richard nodded to the stern man who had opened the door. ‘De Chauvigny, bring Heraclius.’

While they waited, Richard poured himself some wine. He filled a huge goblet — gold and encrusted with jewels — that held half the pitcher. He had drained it and poured another by the time Heraclius entered.

The patriarch wore his ceremonial garb: gold-embroidered robes of white silk; a stole of shimmering golden silk around his shoulders; and atop his head a mitre encrusted with jewels that glittered in the candlelight. His eyes widened when he saw John.

‘Patriarch Heraclius,’ Richard addressed him. ‘Thank you for attending me. Do you recognize this man?’

Heraclius weighed his answer for a moment before he shook his head. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘You bastard!’ John growled. He lunged for the patriarch, but two men held him back. One of them twisted John’s arm painfully behind his back.

Heraclius’s full lips curled into a sneer. ‘Whoever he is, he seems quite the savage.’

Walchelin’s hand went to the dagger at his belt. ‘Let me kill him, Your Grace.’

‘Not yet.’ Richard studied John. Their eyes met. ‘Leave us, all of you.’

‘Your Grace!’ Walchelin protested.

‘Go! I wish to speak with him alone.’ When the courtiers had shuffled out, Richard rose and came around the table to stand before John. The king was a big man, half a hand taller than John and with broad shoulders and strong hands. ‘I know a liar when I see one,’ he said. ‘How long did you spend with the Saracens, John of Tatewic?’

‘Fifteen years, Your Grace.’

‘How did you come to be amongst them?’

‘I was captured at the siege of Damascus and sold as a slave. I served in the household of Najm ad-Din. I was the personal slave of his son, Saladin.’

‘The same Saladin who took Jerusalem? You know him well?’

John nodded. ‘I was the captain of his private guard. We were like brothers, once.’

‘God has sent you to me for a reason, John.’ Richard clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I have need of you. Heraclius is a prating fool. He has travelled across Europe begging men to take up the cross, but he cannot tell me one useful thing about the enemy we will face. One thing I learned from my father, may the devil piss on him, is to never move forward without knowing the lay of the land. With you at my side, I will not be marching blind.’

‘I will serve you as I am able, Your Grace.’

‘You will be my secretary. The march to Palestine will take months. I expect you at my side every day. By the time we arrive, I will know everything there is to know about our enemy.’

‘Your Grace, if I may?’ Richard nodded, and John continued. ‘You speak of marching to the Holy Land. I have trod that road in the army of King Louis. The emperor in Constantinople gave us little help, and in Anatolia the Turks harassed us day and night. We lost more than half our men before we reached Acre. You would be better served taking a ship.’

‘You prove your worth already, John.’ The king grabbed his goblet and took another drink. ‘But ships are damnably expensive. We’ll need to kill more Jews.’