Holy War

Chapter 2

December 1182: Jerusalem

A snowflake stung the tip of John’s nose before melting. He looked up at the narrow strip of slate-grey sky that was visible between the buildings crowding the street on either side and saw more flakes drifting down. John normally preferred a coat of mail to his priest’s vestments, but for once he was grateful for the warmth of his tentlike chasuble. It was made of thick white silk and was heavily embroidered with silver to reflect his new station. After saving the king’s life at the battle of Montgisard, he had been appointed Archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, second only to the patriarch in Jerusalem.

John glanced to the king. Despite his silk robes and heavy cloak lined with ermine, Baldwin was shivering, making the crown of the Kingdom of Jerusalem dance atop his head. Baldwin spent most of his days huddled before the fire in his chambers, but he had insisted on walking in the Christmas procession. It had been five years since Montgisard, and memories of his victory were fading, replaced by rumours of his failing health. The king had suffered from leprosy since he was a child. He had lost his eyebrows and the skin on his brow had thickened, making him look much older than his twenty-one years. The lesions on his face were only partly covered by his blond beard. He wanted to show the barons that he was strong and capable, but the long trip across the city from the palace to the Templum Domini and then back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had taken its toll. Baldwin’s legs were shaking with fatigue. It would not do to have him fall. John stepped forward and took the king’s arm.

‘I do not need your help,’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Of course, Your Grace. It is only that the way is long, and I have grown faint. I would be grateful for your support.’

Baldwin gave John a nod of thanks and allowed himself to be supported.

His sister Sibylla smirked. ‘Thank the Lord my strong brother is here to lend you his arm, priest. We would not want you to fall on your face before our beloved people.’ A year Baldwin’s senior, Sibylla was everything he was not. Her long auburn hair framed a fine-boned face with large blue eyes and skin that glowed with health. She walked with her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. And where her brother was reflective and patient, Sibylla was all fiery passion. Two years ago, on the eve of her betrothal to Balian of Ibelin, she had been found in bed with the French crusader Guy of Lusignan. Baldwin had been furious, but when a week later she was found to be with child, there was nothing to be done but for Guy and Sibylla to marry. John suspected that the king’s mother Agnes was behind the whole affair. She was the one with the key to Sibylla’s chastity belt, and Guy was one of her creatures.

Agnes was walking beside Sibylla’s son from her first marriage. With his uncle rendered impotent by leprosy, the younger Baldwin would inherit the throne. The sickly child rode in a shaded chair carried by four servants. He was pale as milk and painfully thin. Sibylla had not wanted him to take part in the procession, but Agnes had insisted. The entire populace of Jerusalem would turn out for the Christmas Mass, and Agnes thought it important that they see their future king.

The towering dome of the church was just ahead. The Templars carrying the True Cross led the procession into the church courtyard, and then stepped aside. Patriarch Heraclius paused just inside the Gate of the Crucifixion, which led into the church. ‘What now?’ Baldwin grumbled. His lips had taken on a bluish tint.

Heraclius raised his arms and began to pray in his high, piercing voice. John hated the sound of it. He had painful memories of Heraclius purring in his ear while the priest tortured John after he had been captured fighting for the Saracens at Butaiah. John might now serve as Heraclius’s deputy, but the two men still hated one another.

‘Will he ever stop talking?’ William muttered as he stamped his feet. The Archbishop of Tyre’s dislike for Heraclius was no secret. ‘It is damnably cold, and his Latin is so poor no one can understand him anyway. Did he just call the faithful the erect of God?’

The constable Amalric snorted in amusement and was joined by his brother, Sibylla’s husband Guy. Guy was clean-shaven, with long blond hair and emerald-green eyes. He would have been handsome were it not for his snub nose, an unfortunate feature that he shared with his brother. Neither man knew any Latin, but they both had a crude sense of humour.

‘And I am delighted to learn that Jerusalem is the bookmark of cities,’ William continued. ‘How can anyone confuse regestum and regina? What does that make Acre, I wonder? The inkpot? You should never have made him patriarch, Your Grace.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Baldwin snapped. ‘I had to do something to heal the rift in my court. I cannot defend my kingdom against the Saracens while my own subjects are at one another’s throats.’

After his great victory at Montgisard, Baldwin had sought to reconcile the two factions that split his court: on the one side his mother, Agnes, with her brother, Joscelin, Guy and Amalric of Lusignan and Reynald of Chatillon, lord of Oultrejourdain; and on the other the old families represented by Raymond of Tripoli, Reginald of Sidon, the Balians and William. When old Humphrey of Toron died in battle, the king had appointed Amalric constable to replace him. Baldwin had betrothed his half-sister Isabella to young Humphrey of Toron, heir of one of the old families but also Reynald’s stepson. And after the patriarch died, he had allowed his mother to choose his successor. Agnes had surprised no one by selecting her pet, Heraclius. Baldwin had been pleased. His mother was happy, and her choice meant that he could keep William as chancellor.

Heraclius finally finished his prayer, and the procession continued into the church. They made a tour around the sepulchre — a stone structure topped with a cupola on which stood a larger-than-life silver statue of Christ — and were then led through the colonnade that separated the sanctuary from the rest of the church. John went to the altar to help Heraclius perform the Mass, while Baldwin took a grateful seat on his throne and the canons went to their benches. The rest of the procession remained just outside the sanctuary. The populace flooded through the doors to join them. Men-at-arms held them back from the lords and the king’s family, forcing them to the back of the church.

John held the large prayer book while Heraclius read. But even as John assisted with the service, his focus was on the king. Baldwin sat rigidly straight on his throne, in a pose intended to convey authority. And perhaps it did so to the people outside the sanctuary. John was closer, though, and he could see the veins standing out in the king’s neck and the crown trembling on his brow. When the service ended, he went to the throne, but Baldwin waved him away and stood. John stayed close as the king strode from the sanctuary and through the crowd, allowing the people to touch him. The touch of the king was said to cure disease, but John did not understand how the people could believe that when Baldwin could not even cure himself. Outside, horses were waiting. John helped the king into the saddle and they trotted to the palace, the new-fallen snow swallowing up the sound of the horses’ hooves. John helped Baldwin from the saddle and followed him inside. The moment he passed through the door, the strength that had seemed to animate Baldwin vanished. His legs failed, and John had to catch him to keep him from falling.

‘Carry me, John,’ Baldwin whispered, his voice weak.

John lifted him with ease. The king was all skin and bones. John carried him to his chamber and deposited him in a chair before the fire. He tucked a blanket around the shaking man.

William had followed them in. He shrugged off his cloak and moved to the fire to warm his hands. ‘Bring warm wine for the King!’ the priest called.

‘The wine can wait,’ Baldwin countered. ‘Bring me Amalric and Jos.’

William exchanged a glance with John and then nodded. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’ He left to retrieve the constable and seneschal, while John went to fetch the wine himself. He was pouring a glass when William returned with Amalric.

‘Your Grace,’ the constable murmured.

The seneschal, Joscelin of Courtenay, entered a moment later. He was a short man, with the same slim build, wavy blond hair and blue eyes as his sister Agnes. He bowed gracefully. ‘Your Grace, I apologize for my absence at Mass. I was occupied with-’

‘That is not why I have asked you here, Uncle. The whores you fuck may trouble your wife, but they are no concern of mine.’ Baldwin paused to look at each of the men gathered around him. ‘I have brought you here to discuss war.’

‘War, Your Grace?’ Amalric’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. ‘The last I heard, Saladin’s army was far off in Al-Jazirah.’

‘Yes, and his absence is a chance not to be missed. As soon as the army is gathered, we will march on Damascus.’

John glanced at the men around him. Their stunned expressions mirrored his own surprise. Joscelin was the first to recover. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but is that wise? Perhaps we can attack later, when you have recovered your strength.’

‘I am a leper, Jos! Rest will not cure what ails me. Last year, I walked in the procession with hardly an ache. This year, it was all I could do not to collapse before I reached the palace. My days are numbered, and my heir is only a child. I must make the Kingdom secure before I die, or I fear it will not stand.’

‘The King is right,’ John agreed. ‘Once Saladin has Aleppo and Mosul in hand, he will turn on us. If we wait, we will fall.’

‘What of peace, John?’ William asked. ‘You once told me that Saladin was a reasonable man.’

‘He was. Since Montgisard, I am not so sure. .’ John had heard disturbing rumours coming from Egypt, where Turan had died a suspicious death, and from Aleppo, where the young emir had been poisoned.

Baldwin nodded. ‘John knows Saladin better than any of us.’

‘I too spent many years amongst the Saracens, Nephew,’ Jos said. As a young man, he had been a prisoner of Nur ad-Din for twelve years after being captured at the Battle of Harim. ‘I spent much of that time in Damascus, and I tell you it is no easy prize. Your father failed to take it, as did your uncle before him.’

Baldwin straightened in his chair. ‘I am not my father. Gather the army, Amalric. Damascus will fall.’

December 1182: Damascus

John’s horse splashed through a muddy stream that ran along the floor of the narrow ravine, or wadi. He had made this trip many times: in 1148 as part of the doomed Second Crusade; in the opposite direction while serving as the commander of Yusuf’s private guard; and most recently in 1174, with Baldwin’s father. He did not remember crossing any streams, but then again, much of this trip had been unfamiliar. Steady rain had transformed the landscape. Where once there had been only dusty hills and dry ravines, now there were rivulets and desert flowers blooming in the rain. John’s horse was caked in mud, and he found it impossible to stay dry, no matter how tightly he wrapped his cloak about himself. He hunched forward in the saddle, shivering in the cold wind that blew from the sea.

The foot-soldiers were worse off. All around John, men wearing heavy packs and with spears over their shoulders slogged through mud that came up to their calves. Just ahead, a soldier stumbled and fell. His fellows helped him up, and as the poor man wiped mud from his eyes, he gave John a resentful look.

‘Spare your horse for a poor soldier, father?’

John made the sign of the cross. ‘God will give you strength.’

The soldier spat. John could not blame him. He continued past him and on down the long line of men. Baldwin had gathered five thousand infantry, but only two hundred knights had joined him. Guy and Reynald were keeping their men in the south, claiming they were needed to prevent Saracen incursions from Egypt.

‘John!’ Baldwin called brightly as he trotted up alongside. The king, at least, was in good spirits. He always seemed younger when in the field, and healthier, too, thanks to the gloves that hid his scarred hands and the helmet whose nasal and broad cheekpieces disguised his face. ‘How much farther?’

‘Damascus should come into view once we are atop that hill.’ As Baldwin gazed at the distant slope, whose crest disappeared in the driving rain, John took a closer look at the king. Baldwin’s face was flushed, his eyes bright and feverish. ‘Perhaps we should camp here, Your Grace, until the worst of the storm has passed.’

‘Camp? When we are so close?’

‘You look unwell, Your Grace.’

Baldwin’s mouth set in a thin line, and he spurred ahead. John should have known better. The king was stubborn when it came to his illness. He hated nothing more than when people made allowances for him.

John reached the hill, and his horse struggled up the muddy slope. At the top, he was surprised that he could not see Damascus. Instead of green orchards stretching towards mud-brown walls, he saw only driving rain.

‘John! Are you certain we are close?’ Baldwin called from near by.

‘I have marched up that hill more than once, Your Grace. I will not soon forget it. Damascus is there.’

Baldwin raised his voice. ‘Constable!’

Amalric rode over. He was huddled under so many furs that only his dull eyes were visible. They betrayed an oxlike stupidity, but the constable was undeniably brave and a fierce warrior. ‘Yes, Your Grace?’ he said, and blew snot from his nose.

‘Have the men form a column with the knights in the centre. We will march in formation until we reach the city. We will make camp south of Damascus, on the banks of the Barada. Have the sergeants build an earthen rampart and keep a careful watch. I want no surprises during the night.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Your Grace,’ John said when Amalric had cantered away. ‘The orchards to the west of the city-’

‘I know, John. I must take them if I wish to starve out Damascus. But I do not plan to starve them; nor do I intend to waste our men’s lives fighting in those orchards. You have told me what a death-trap they are. We do not need them. I have brought enough food for a month in the field. By that time, Damascus will be ours. We will take the city by storm.’

The next morning John rose before dawn. It was an old habit from when he had been a slave and would be whipped were he not at his post by sunrise. He was stiff after a night spent on the hard ground. He had turned fifty earlier that year, and nights in the field were not so easy as they once were. He slowly worked out the aches left by a half-dozen old injuries. His right shoulder had been badly injured outside Damascus during the Second Crusade, the day he was captured by the Saracens. He rolled it until it loosened, and began on his left shoulder, which had been dislocated on the rack after the Christians captured him at the Battle of Butaiah. His sword hand was always stiff in the morning. He flexed it and massaged his forearm, which was scarred where he had received a nasty gash a few years back while fighting Reynald of Chatillon’s men. After stretching, John pulled on his padded vest, then lifted his suit of mail over his head and wriggled into it. He buckled the strap that tightened the collar, placed a steel cap on his head and grabbed his mace. It had a three-foot handle that led to a heavy, grooved head. As a priest, he was forbidden to shed blood, but that did not mean he could not bash in his enemies’ heads.

John stepped from his tent to find that the rain had stopped. The tents of the army dotted the plain south of Damascus. He walked through them and away from camp to the latrine. It had been poorly dug due to the muddy ground and was filled with rainwater. As he pissed, John looked towards the orchards east of the city. Even in the dim light of early dawn, he could make out trees heavy with oranges. The city was nothing more than a dim shape, a greater darkness crouching in the morning gloom.

When he had finished at the latrine, John went to the river and splashed water on his face. It stung it was so cold. He scooped up more to wet his short hair. The men were starting to stir when John returned to camp. He heard the rasp of swords being sharpened and the jangle of mail as men dressed. He went to the cooking fires at the rear of the camp. One of the cooks — a fleshy man with a prominent mole on his cheek — offered John a piece of hot flatbread and ladled boiled wheat into his upturned helmet.

‘Does God favour us, father?’

John had seen enough of battle to know that God did not concern himself with the wars of men, but that was not what this cook wanted to hear. The man was fiddling with the medallion of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre about his neck. ‘God favours the virtuous,’ John told him.

The cook grinned. ‘Have another piece of bread, father.’

John took it with a nod of thanks. He ate as he made his way to the king’s tent. He was using the bread to scrape up the last of the boiled wheat as he stepped inside. Though it was early, Baldwin already wore his hauberk, a tunic of mail that covered him from neck to mid thigh. He stood leaning over a table covered with papers. The king’s face was flushed; he was sweating despite the morning cool. John knew better than to mention Baldwin’s health. He knelt. ‘God grant you good day, Your Grace.’

‘John.’

‘Have you broken your fast, my lord? I can have food brought.’

‘Later. Come, have a look at this.’ A map had been laid out at the centre of the table. It showed the city of Damascus with hills to the west, plains to the east and the Barada River running from north to south through the city. ‘I will send a thousand men against the southern wall to draw their defences. The bulk of the army will attack here.’ Baldwin pointed to a stretch of the eastern wall.

John nodded. ‘The walls are weakest in the east.’ He met Baldwin’s eyes. ‘But they would be weaker after a week’s bombardment.’

‘And we will be weaker, too. I have read the histories, John. The Second Crusade failed because they waited too long. We will attack today, while the men are strong and eager.’

‘As you say, Your Grace.’

Either Baldwin did not notice the reluctance in John’s voice, or he affected not to. ‘I will focus the attack at the Gate of Saint Thomas,’ he continued. ‘Our men have only to scale the walls and open the gate. The knights will be waiting to charge through. Most of Damascus’s warriors are in the north with Saladin. They will not be able to stop us once we are inside the city.’

John’s forehead creased. The last time the Franks had conquered a Saracen city, the streets had run with the blood of men and children, and hundreds of women had been raped. He might be a servant of the king, but he still had friends in Damascus. He did not want to see Al-Muqaddam gutted or Faridah raped. ‘If you pillage the city, you will stir up resentment amongst the populace, Your Grace. You will make Damascus that much harder to hold.’

‘I will think on it.’ Baldwin stepped away from the table. ‘Pray with me, John.’ They knelt. The ground had been covered in carpets, but they were wet, water having seeped through from the muddy ground beneath.

‘De profundis clamavi ad te domine,’ John began. ‘Domine, exuadi vocem meam.’ When he had finished the De profundis, he added, ‘Lord God, strengthen the arm of your servant Baldwin, that he might win victory in your name. Grant him the wisdom to lead his men wisely, and the grace to treat his enemy with compassion.’

Baldwin took his helmet from the table and started for the tent flap, but stopped. He drew his sword and turned to John. ‘Bless my blade.’

John made the sign of the cross over the sword. ‘I beseech thee, O Lord, to hear our prayers and to bless with your majesty the sword of your servant Baldwin. May it be the scourge and terror of your enemies and the salvation of the people of God.’

‘Amen!’

John followed Baldwin outside. The thousand sergeants who would attack the southern wall had already formed a column bristling with spears. Some of them carried scaling ladders; others held ropes with grappling hooks or heavy crossbows to pick defenders off the wall. The rest of the sergeants were just beginning to form ranks. The knights were mounting their horses and being handed lances and kite-shaped shields by their squires.

‘My horse!’ Baldwin shouted. One of the king’s squires led forth a chestnut destrier. It pranced as it came, showing off a thickly muscled chest and hindquarters. The seat of the saddle was taller than Baldwin, and it took two squires to help him mount in his heavy armour. Another squire handed Baldwin his shield. He urged the horse towards where the knights were gathering, but it had only taken a few steps when the king swayed, then fell from the saddle.

John was the first to reach him. ‘My lord!’ he cried, but there was no response. As the squires and knights gathered around, John gently removed Baldwin’s helmet. There was a swelling bump on the king’s temple where he had struck his head during the fall. ‘My lord!’ John repeated, this time shouting.

Baldwin’s eyes fluttered open. He stared straight at John, but did not seem to see him. ‘It’s poisoned. .’ he murmured. ‘Father! Father!’ His eyes closed as he lost consciousness.

John looked to one of Baldwin’s squires. ‘A doctor. Fetch a doctor!’ The boy raced off. ‘Carry the King to his tent,’ John ordered the onlooking knights.

Four men took hold of the king. John was following them to Baldwin’s tent when Amalric grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. ‘What of the men?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘The battle?’

‘Are you mad? The King is ill. We cannot fight.’

‘But the men stand ready,’ Amalric protested. ‘We may not have another chance to take Damascus. It would be a great victory.’

‘A great victory for you.’ Amalric opened his mouth to protest, but John continued before he could speak. ‘And a bitter defeat if you should lose. With the King ill, you would bear all the blame.’

‘Yes,’ Amalric murmured, his brow furrowed. ‘Yes. I will tell the men to return to their tents.’

Amalric began shouting orders. John hurried inside. The knights had laid Baldwin on his bed and removed his mail shirt. The padded vest beneath was soaked with sweat. The king’s fingers began to tremble, and soon his whole body was shaking. The knights stepped back.

‘He is cursed,’ one of them muttered.

‘It is a fever, nothing more.’ John drew a blanket over the king, and the shaking soon ceased.

A moment later, the doctor entered. He was a clean-shaven man in a monk’s brown robes. He looked young enough to be John’s son. The doctor carried a trunk, which he set down at the foot of the king’s bed. ‘Off with you,’ he instructed the knights. ‘You, too, father. Leave me to my work.’

The knights trooped out of the tent, but John stopped at the flap. The doctor placed the back of his hand on the king’s forehead. ‘He burns,’ he murmured. He began to chant the Pater Noster as he went about his work. He lit a brass brazier and placed a small pot on it. Into the pot he poured water and a splash of vinegar and added some white crystal, a handful of tiny seeds and some shavings that he peeled off a long root with his knife.

‘What is that?’ John asked.

The doctor looked up, startled. ‘I told you to leave.’

‘What is it?’

‘Horseradish, along with salt and caraway seeds. Together, they are an infallible cure for fever.’

The doctor continued to chant the Pater Noster until the water boiled. He put his face in the steam. ‘Good, good.’ He used the hem of his tunic to grip the pot and move it to the floor. ‘We must let it cool. Now I will restore his humours to balance.’

He opened his case and removed a small lancet and a bowl to collect blood. John crossed the tent and grabbed the doctor’s arm. ‘Do not bleed him.’

The doctor shook free. ‘Do not tell me my business. The King burns. I must reduce his blood to bring the fever down.’ He found a vein and took the blade of the lancet between his thumb and forefinger. Before the doctor could make the incision, John grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. The doctor gasped in pain. ‘Are you mad? Stop! I-’ He fell silent as John took the lancet from him and held the blade to the doctor’s throat.

‘If you bleed the King, you will bleed. Do you understand?’

‘Y-yes, father.’

‘John!’ Amalric cried as he entered the tent. ‘What are you doing? Unhand Brother Jaquemon.’

John released the doctor but kept the lancet.

‘Come,’ Amalric called. ‘This is no place for us. Let the man do his work in peace.’

Before John stepped out, he turned back to Jaquemon. ‘No bleeding.’

John spent the remainder of the day pacing before Baldwin’s tent. At first, several dozen anxious knights kept vigil with him, but when the rains returned, shortly after midday, they left one by one. Darkness was falling when Jaquemon finally emerged. He stopped short when he saw John. ‘I did not bleed him. I swear it!’

‘How is he?’

Jaquemon shook his head. ‘The fever is very bad. The King has not woken. Go to your tent. I will send for you if his condition changes.’

John spent a restless night tossing and turning on the damp ground as the rain beat down on the fabric of his tent. Over the next two days, while the men huddled in their tents attempting to stay dry, John stood in the rain outside Baldwin’s tent. He did not know what else to do. On the third night, John was standing by the tent flap, nodding off as he hunched beneath his cloak, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the doctor.

‘He is awake,’ Jaquemon said. ‘He asked for you.’

The interior of the tent was dark. John felt his way to the king’s bedside and knelt. He could just make out Baldwin’s face. A wet cloth lay across the king’s forehead. His eyes fluttered open.

‘John? Is that you?’

‘I am here, Your Grace.’

‘I–I cannot see, John.’

‘I will light the lamp, Your Grace.’

John started to rise. ‘No! It is not that. I cannot see. I am blind.’

John felt a pain in his chest. ‘You will recover,’ he told Baldwin, trying to convince himself as much as the king. ‘Once the fever has passed.’

‘I cannot move my arms, John.’ Baldwin’s voice trembled. ‘I am afraid.’

John gripped the king’s hand, unsure of what else to do. ‘You must drink something,’ he said at last. ‘You will feel better afterwards.’ John went to the pot the doctor had prepared and scooped out a cup of the potion. But when he returned to the king’s side, Baldwin was asleep. John set the cup down and sat beside the king. He gently pushed the hair back from Baldwin’s forehead. He looked up as Amalric entered the tent.

‘The doctor tells me he may not survive,’ the constable said.

‘He will live. He is too stubborn to die.’

‘He also said the King is blind and crippled.’

‘Perhaps when the fever leaves him-’

‘A crippled king cannot rule,’ Amalric said with certainty. ‘We must return to Jerusalem and choose a regent.’

January 1183: Jerusalem

Smoke from the bakeries and kitchens of Jerusalem hung in the clear blue sky, showing John where the city lay long before the walls came into view. The sunshine and unseasonably warm January weather were at odds with the sombre mood of the army as it trudged the last miles to the city. Amalric had sent messengers galloping ahead to call for a meeting of the Haute Cour. They would have reached the city in only two days. The main body of the army had taken six days to make the journey from Damascus; they had been slowed by the king, who was carried in a covered litter to spare him the bumps and jolts of the road. Baldwin had awoken twice to murmur incoherently. At least the doctor had managed to feed him a little broth before the king lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The litter-bearers were now struggling up the hill past rows of grapevines. John spurred ahead. From the top, he could see the north wall of Jerusalem, the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templum Domini rising behind it. Two dozen knights had set out from Saint Stephen’s Gate and were making their way towards the army. The flag of Jerusalem flew over them. Next to it was another banner: on the left a field of blue topped with a band of gold; on the right three red disks on a field of gold. They were the arms of Agnes of Courtenay.

John urged his horse down the far side of the hill at a canter. He slowed to a walk as he approached Agnes. Her face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. The king’s mother had aged gracefully, but now she looked every one of her forty-nine years. ‘John,’ she greeted him. ‘How is he?’

Agnes had been his lover once, but she had betrayed him for power. She had bedded the constable Amalric — and likely other men besides — to establish her influence at court. And she had masterminded the plot that led to the death of the previous king. John despised her even as he desired her, but today, in the face of her grief, he could not summon his usual resentment. ‘He is rarely conscious,’ he told her. ‘He has lost his sight and the use of his arms and legs.’

Agnes blinked back tears. ‘Where is he?’

‘I will take you to him.’

John headed back up the hill with Agnes riding beside him. ‘You must be on your guard in Jerusalem,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are those who mean harm to my son, and to those who would protect him.’

‘Who? And why tell me this? Do not pretend that you care for me.’

‘I do not need to pretend, John. But if you will not believe that, then perhaps you will believe this. My daughter Sibylla wants Baldwin dead. If he dies, then she becomes queen, and her husband Guy will take power, along with his friends Reynald and Heraclius. You would do anything to protect Baldwin, and so would I. That makes us allies, and puts us both in danger.’

They had reached the litter, and Agnes dismounted and entered to ride with her son. Her men fell in around the carriage. John followed them. As he approached the gate, he took his mace from his saddlebag and hung it from his belt. He did not trust Agnes, but it would not hurt to be cautious.

At the palace, the courtyard was filled with anxious guards and servants. They watched silently as Agnes stepped out of the litter and began to issue orders. ‘You men,’ she snapped, waving at some of the guards near the door. ‘Bring a stretcher for the King.’ The men returned a moment later, and Baldwin was transferred to the stretcher. ‘Take him to my quarters,’ Agnes instructed. ‘I will care for him myself.’ Four men lifted the stretcher, and she accompanied them into the palace.

John started to follow, but the guards framing the door crossed their spears to bar his way. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ John demanded. ‘I am the King’s councillor.’ He was about to call out to Agnes when two more guards grabbed his arms from behind.

‘Come quietly now,’ one of them whispered in his ear, ‘and we’ll do you no harm, father.’ He reached for John’s mace, but John managed to pull away. He elbowed the man in the throat, then took his mace and swung for the guard holding his left arm. His mace clanged off the man’s helmet, dropping him. Next moment, John felt a blow to the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, and the world went black.

He jerked awake only a moment later. He felt the back of his head and winced. His hair was wet with blood. The four guards were standing around him. John started to rise when one of them punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

‘Leave that man be!’

John looked up to see Agnes’s brother Joscelin of Courtenay standing in the doorway to the palace.

The guards stepped away from John. ‘The regent said-’ one of them began.

‘I am the seneschal, and I tell you I will see to him.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The guards moved away. Joscelin helped John to rise and kept hold of his arm as he guided him inside the palace.

‘Thank you, Jos. What was that about?’ Joscelin led them down a staircase, away from Agnes’s quarters. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The dungeons.’ John stopped and pulled his arm free. Joscelin met his eyes. ‘You can follow me willingly, John, or I can have the guards take you.’

John’s gaze went to the dagger at Joscelin’s belt. The seneschal was a small man. He could overpower him. With his dagger, he might get past the guards outside and to a horse. But even if he managed to get away, where would he go? John still remembered the look of hatred that Yusuf had given him before he limped off the field at Montgisard. His friend would not take him in. ‘Lead on,’ he said and fell in behind the seneschal. The stairs ended in a long hallway. The air was chill and damp. Their footsteps echoed loudly. ‘Why?’

‘Regent’s orders.’

‘The regent?’

‘Guy.’

‘The Council chose Guy?’ Sibylla’s husband was brave enough, but John was surprised that the native lords had not selected one of their own.

‘The Council has not yet met,’ Joscelin said as he led John down another, narrower staircase. ‘Sibylla came up from Ascalon three days ago at the head of two hundred knights led by Reynald of Chatillon. She named her husband regent, and with the army gone to Damascus, there was no one to stop her.’ Joscelin frowned. ‘We had best get used to it. She will be queen when her brother dies.’

‘Baldwin will live.’

‘You had best hope so. Heraclius has the ear of the queen, and he has sworn you will rot to death before you see the light of day. You made a mistake when you made an enemy of that one.’

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped before a thick wooden door. Joscelin knocked, and the grille in the centre of the door slid open to reveal a man’s face. He was bald, with sallow skin that hung from his cheeks in folds.

‘I bring a prisoner,’ Joscelin told the gaoler. ‘The priest, John of Tatewic.’

The gaoler grunted and slid the grille shut. There was the clank of a key in the lock, and the door swung open. The gaoler proved to be a block of a man, dressed entirely in boiled leather. He raised a wicked-looking mace with a head of grooved steel. ‘If you make any trouble, I’ll spill your brains on the floor, priest.’ He returned the mace to his belt and began to pat at John’s robes, looking for weapons or coin. After finding neither, he moved to close the door.

‘I will do what I can for you, John,’ Joscelin said just before the dungeon door slammed shut.

March 1183: Jerusalem

John started awake. His cell was dark; he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He groaned as he sat up. He was sore all over from weeks spent sleeping on the stone floor with only his cloak for covering. He cocked his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Breakfast already? His stomach turned at the thought. Breakfast was rancid boiled wheat with dead weevils in it. At first, John had picked the weevils out. Now, he ate them first. At least they weren’t spoiled.

The footsteps stopped, and torchlight filtered in through the grille in the cell door. John was rising as the door swung open. He blinked against the light.

‘You smell awful, John.’ It was William, torch in hand.

John embraced him. ‘And you smell sweet as a rose. Thank God you have come.’

William’s brow furrowed. The cell door shut behind him. ‘I am sorry, John. I have not come to free you.’

It was as if John were a marionette, and the string holding him up had been cut. He started to fall, but William caught him and helped him to the wall to sit. ‘I have no influence in Jerusalem now. Sibylla and Reynald rule; Guy is their stooge. I have come to say farewell.’

‘Farewell? Where are you going?’

‘To Rome.’ William sighed. ‘Guy removed me from my post as chancellor, and Heraclius has excommunicated me. I am travelling to Rome to ask the Pope that I be reinstated as Archbishop of Tyre.’

‘No. You must stay here. Fight them! When Baldwin recovers-’

‘It has been two months now, John. Baldwin is only rarely lucid. The doctors say he will not recover.’

‘So you will leave me here to rot?’

‘I have done all I could, but I fear any further efforts on my part will only make matters worse for you. And if I do not leave soon, I may be joining you in the dungeons. I am sorry, friend.’

John’s head fell. William bent down and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You do have friends in the Kingdom. Raymond and Reginald have demanded your release. Agnes, too.’ John’s head jerked up. ‘I do not know what game she plays, but she can be a powerful ally. Be patient. You are a noble and a man of the cloth. They cannot hold you here forever without a trial.’

The cell door creaked open. The gaoler stood there with mace in hand. ‘Your time is up, priest. You must go, unless you have more coin.’

William stood. John rose and embraced him again. ‘I will pray for your success in Rome.’

William stepped from the cell and handed the gaoler a heavy pouch of coins. ‘This is for my friend. See that he is treated well.’

The gaoler grunted affirmatively.

William looked back to John. ‘God save you, friend.’