Holy War

Chapter 4

September 1183: Jerusalem

‘Come, Reynald. Let us finish this.’ John dropped into a crouch and raised his imaginary sword. He skipped back a few steps and his back came up against the wall of the cell. John brought his sword up to parry, then spun away from another blow. He knocked aside a thrust and sprang forward to counter, lunging at the shadows on the wall before giving ground. He parried a dozen imagined blows. He could almost see Reynald grinning fiercely as he hacked down again and again. John’s back pressed up against the wall, and he lashed out before again spinning away. He slipped on some straw and stumbled, but it was only a feint. He sidestepped a clumsy blow and finished Reynald with a slashing blow to the neck. In his mind’s eye, he watched Reynald grasp his throat, the red blood welling up between his thick fingers. Then he fell to the ground, dead.

John’s chest was heaving. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sank down on his straw mattress. He was weaker than he would have liked. He got up again and began to pace his cell. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn. Five paces. Turn. He did the circuit one hundred times after both his morning and evening meal. He would add another session in the afternoon, and another session of practice swordplay. If he was ever freed from this dungeon, he would be ready to make his enemies pay.

He had been in prison for something like eight months. It was hard to be exact when there was no sunlight, and the torches in the hallway outside his cell burned night and day. Only the food, which came twice a day, let him know when one day ended and the next began. Sometimes, though, he lost track of which meal was breakfast and which supper. After William’s visit, the food had improved, but it was always the same: a thick slice of black bread and a cup of thin vegetable broth. On good days, there would be a small piece of onion or carrot in the broth. Between meals, when not exercising, John thought of those who had put him in his cell — of Heraclius, Guy and Sibylla. He thought of Baldwin, of Yusuf, of his son Ubadah and of Zimat. He thought again of Reynald and rubbed the scar on his forearm.

John finished pacing and lay down. He could hear the distant drip of water. Until recently, he would have also heard the Weeper, as John had dubbed the man in the cell across from him. He had cried quietly for hours on end. Sometimes, he had sobbed loudly and banged on his door. Until the day the gaoler came to his cell. John had not thought it possible for anyone to scream so loud. After that, John had not heard from the Weeper again. One-Eye was gone, too. He had not lasted long after the gaoler put his eye out.

Scratchy occupied the cell to John’s left. Each night — or what he thought was night — John heard a faint scratching sound coming from his cell. He had thought the man might be trying to communicate. He had found a small pebble and scratched on the wall of his own cell. The sound from Scratchy had ceased at once and not returned until the following night. John had not tried again. If the man was trying to tunnel out through the thick walls, then he was mad, and John would not waste his time on a madman. It was hard enough keeping himself sane.

John called his neighbour to the right le Pere. Every time food was brought, the man asked after the health of his son. Other than that, he made no sound. John kept his silence, too. He had asked after Baldwin for the first few weeks, but had received nothing more than sullen grunts and the occasional cuff to the head.

John heard the creak of rusty hinges as the door to the dungeon swung open. It was too early to be supper. It must be a visitor, or a new prisoner. John went to the grille in his cell door. He heard voices. He could not make out what they were saying, but one of them sounded like a woman. A visitor, then. John peered through the metal grate. Any change in the monotony of his days was welcome. He heard footsteps approaching along the hall. When he saw the gaoler, he stepped back. John knew better than to peer through the grate at him. That was how One-Eye had lost his eye. The gaoler had put a dagger in it.

The footsteps stopped before John’s cell. He heard the gaoler fumble with his keys, and a moment later the door creaked open. The gaoler stepped aside to reveal Agnes. She was dressed in robes of buttery silk and had a fur around her neck. She winced when she saw John.

‘Leave us,’ she told the gaoler.

‘Wha-’ John croaked, his voice rusty after weeks of disuse. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am freeing you. Come with me.’

John did not move. ‘Why now? It has been months.’

‘The regent Guy forbid me to come. He had me watched. I dared not even visit so long as he was in the city.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘La Sephorie. He has called on the barons to join him there. Reynald attacked the ports of Medina and Mecca, breaking the treaty with Saladin. The Saracens are invading, John. The Kingdom is going to war.’

‘I understand. You made Reynald a great lord, and now that he has damned us all, you have come to ask for my sword.’ John went and sat on his mattress. ‘You will not have it.’

Agnes stepped into the cell. ‘I have made mistakes, John. I will not deny it. But now I am trying to set things right.’

‘You are wasting your breath, Agnes. I will not fight for Guy.’

‘I am not asking you to. I want you to fight for Baldwin.’

John’s head jerked up. ‘He lives?’

‘I will take you to him.’ As Agnes was leaving the cell, she paused and looked back. John still had not moved. ‘You can stay here if you wish, John, but I will not come again.’

This time, John followed. Agnes led him out of the dungeon and up a pair of staircases. The second opened into a hallway filled with sunshine spilling in through arched windows. John blinked in the bright light. He went to stand at a window, closed his eyes and let the sunshine spill over him.

‘John,’ Agnes called. ‘Are you coming?’

She led him up another, broader staircase to her private quarters. A table had been set with food: roast lamb in a thick gravy, fresh bread and wine. John’s mouth began to water.

‘Eat,’ Agnes told him.

‘The King-’

‘Eat first.’ Agnes’s tone brooked no debate.

Food had never tasted so good. Agnes watched him from beside a door on the far side of the room. She wrinkled her nose. ‘You look horrible, John. And you smell like a latrine.’

‘They do not offer baths in the dungeons.’

‘No. I suppose not.’

John finished the roast and sopped up the last of the gravy with the bread. He drained the cup of wine and stood, a little unsteadily. The alcohol had gone straight to his head. ‘Take me to Baldwin.’

Agnes produced a key and unlocked the door she stood next to. John followed her into a waiting room, where a guard stood. Agnes nodded to him, and the guard pulled another door open. She gestured for John to go first. The room he entered was dim. Heavy curtains had been hung over the windows. On the far side of the room, he made out a large bed. He crossed the room. Baldwin lay beneath thick covers. The king’s face was skeletal, his cheeks sunken and his skin impossibly pale. His breathing was shallow.

‘He has been this way for months,’ Agnes said. ‘It is all the doctors can do to keep him fed. He wakes sometimes, but he speaks no sense and soon relapses.’ She crossed the room and took a cloth from a bowl of water at the bedside. She carefully wrung the cloth so that water dripped into the king’s mouth. ‘Heraclius has helped Sibylla draw up a letter of abdication. They will sign it for him, and then Sibylla will make her husband Guy king.’ She met John’s eyes. ‘We must stop them.’

‘Why would you want to do that? Guy and Heraclius are your creatures.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Baldwin is my son, John. I had no part in these plots. With my brother’s help, I have taken control of the citadel and placed Sibylla in my custody. I can prevent the letter of abdication from being signed, but only until Guy returns. That is why I need you.’

‘And what would you have me do? I have been stripped of my position in the church. I am nothing.’

‘No longer. The abbot of Mount Sion has died. I have arranged for you to replace him.’

‘Under whose authority?’

‘The King’s.’ She took a scroll from the sleeve of her robe and handed it to John. He unrolled it and squinted to read in the darkness. It requested that John be made abbot of the abbey of Our Lady of Mount Sion in return for a gift of five thousand gold bezants. At the bottom, it bore Baldwin’s seal. ‘I, too, can forge documents,’ Agnes said. ‘The monastery has one hundred and fifty sergeants at its command. Take them to La Sephorie.’

John shook his head. ‘I have no wish to return to my cell. Guy will have me cast in irons the moment he sees me.’

‘I think not. When you arrive, seek out Raymond, the Count of Tripoli. He will support you. And you will have your men. Guy needs every sword he can get, even yours. He will grant you your freedom, if only so long as Saladin’s men threaten the

Kingdom.’

‘So I go to La Sephorie. What then?’

‘You must see to it that Guy does not return.’

John met her emerald green eyes. They had no warmth in them. ‘I am not you, Agnes. I am no murderer.’

‘I am not asking, John. You can help me, or you can return to your cell.’

‘I thought you knew me better than that.’ John headed for the door.

‘I know you love my son! I have kept Baldwin safe until now, but once Guy is king, I will not be able to protect him. How long do you think he will live then?’

John paused in the doorway and looked to Baldwin. He had known the young man since he was a child. He had tutored him and taught him to fight. The king was more of a son to him than Ubadah. ‘This Guy, does he truly deserve to die?’

‘Does Baldwin?’

‘Very well; I will do it.’

October 1183: La Sephorie

John rode hunched forward in the saddle. His exercises in prison had not prepared him for the weight of his mail hauberk or for days spent on horseback. He felt as if a dagger had been plunged into the small of his back. He would have liked to call a halt, but La Sephorie was not far off.

He and his men had left Mount Sion three days ago. The abbey was located just outside the wall of Jerusalem, and when John first arrived after meeting with Agnes, the brothers had received him with indignation. A stranger, straight from the palace dungeons, would not rule over them; it was an outrage! In the end, the gold had won them over. John had been elected abbot the next day. His first act had been to call the sergeants who owed service to the abbey. They had set out the next morning, riding up the west bank of the Jordan. The previous night they had reached Beisan. Both the fortress and the town huddled at its base had been sacked and burned. He and his men had passed an anxious night amongst the blackened stones of the castle. Today, John rode with his hand on his mace.

A breeze stirred his hair, and John’s nose wrinkled. He could smell the stench of unwashed men, horses and full latrines. The camp was close. He spurred ahead, leaving behind the sergeants, who marched on foot. He rode to the top of a low hill, and there was the camp. Dozens of large barracks tents and hundreds of smaller ones sat on a broad plain amidst fields of golden wheat and groves of olive and pomegranate trees. At the centre of the camp, two dozen homes of stone and mud were huddled at the base of a hill topped by a squat square keep with one tower. Above the keep flew the flag of Jerusalem, and beside it, Guy’s flag — two silver crosses on fields of azure, quartered with red lions rampant on silver and blue. John scanned the camp until he spotted Raymond’s standard flying over his tent. He turned and signalled for the captain of his men to join him.

John had first met Aestan years ago, shortly after the Englishman had arrived in the Holy Land to seek his fortune as a soldier. Aestan’s dark hair had now gone white, and his once fair skin was tanned and wrinkled like worn leather. But his green eyes still twinkled when he laughed, and he was still well muscled and flat-bellied. John had been delighted to find him serving amongst the sergeants of Mount Sion.

‘Domne,’ Aestan greeted John, using the Saxon for lord.

‘I must speak to Raymond. Find a place for the men to camp. Keep well away from Reynald’s men.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. I served under the bastard before the Saracens captured him.’

John dismounted and handed the reins to Aestan. ‘See to my horse.’

Guards had been posted at the edge of the camp, but they were chatting as they leaned on their spears and hardly spared John a glance. He wove between tents, passing sergeants in boiled leather and knights in mail, blond Franks and Syrian Christians with the same olive skin and dark hair as the Saracens. He reached Raymond’s tent, which was topped by a flag bearing the outline of a gold cross on a field of scarlet. Two men in mail stood guard at the tent flap.

‘I must speak with your lord,’ John told them.

‘Raymond is at council in the keep.’ The guard nodded towards the hill, which began only a dozen paces away.

‘My thanks.’

John examined the keep as he climbed the hill. The walls were uneven, incorporating stones in a variety of shapes and sizes, some decorated with inscriptions in Latin or carvings of animals. They had no doubt been taken from the ancient Roman town that had once stood on the site. On the upper floor there were a few windows, each too narrow for a man to crawl through. The single tower stood at the north-west corner of the keep. A privy extended from the tower, a tall pile of shit buzzing with flies on the ground beneath.

The door to the keep was guarded by a dozen men. Their captain, a handsome man with only one hand, stepped forward to confront John. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘To the council meeting.’

The captain’s eyebrows rose. ‘You a lord?’

John could understand the man’s doubts. He was thin and ghostly pale — no man’s idea of a great lord. He gestured to the gold cross with split ends that adorned his surcoat. ‘I am the Abbot of Mount Sion. I bring one hundred and fifty men.’

The captain studied him a moment longer, then pointed to John’s mace. ‘Leave your weapon here.’ John handed the mace over, and the guard stepped aside. ‘You’re late, abbot. You had best hurry. First door on your left.’

John went inside and paused beside the door to the council chamber. He could hear raised voices. Despite the pain in his back, he straightened and walked in with a determined stride. A dozen men were gathered around a table. John recognized most of them: Guy and his brother Amalric, the constable; Reynald and his son-in-law Humphrey of Toron, a fat-cheeked young man with an unfortunate overbite and weak chin; Raymond of Tripoli, a slender, straight-backed man with dark hair and a swarthy complexion; and beside him taciturn, balding Reginald of Sidon and Balian of Ibelin, a handsome man with a thin nose and wide, dark eyes. The men fell silent as John entered the room.

‘Saxon?’ Reynald asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

Guy frowned. ‘That man should be in prison. Guards!’

Two men in mail entered the room, but Raymond and Balian stepped between them and John. ‘Let him be,’ Raymond said. ‘We need every sword we can muster.’

‘I have brought one hundred and fifty sergeants,’ John said.

Reynald’s eyebrows shot up. ‘And whose men are these?’

‘Mine. I have been elected abbot of Mount Sion.’

‘On whose authority?’ Guy demanded.

‘The King.’

Reynald snorted. ‘The King is too ill even to feed himself.’

‘Then John’s election is nothing short of a miracle,’ Balian declared in a soft voice that matched his delicate features. ‘All the more reason to welcome him.’ He looked to Guy. ‘Unless you wish to lose his men.’

Guy’s forehead creased. He rubbed the hilt of his dagger with his thumb as he tried to come to a decision.

John met his eyes. Perhaps this was his opportunity to eliminate the regent, and to do so in a way that would not stain his own honour. ‘I have been found guilty of no crimes, my lord. If you wish, I will undergo trial by combat against my accusers to prove my innocence. I believe that means I would fight you.’

‘That will not be necessary. You may stay.’

‘But he is a traitor!’ Reynald protested. ‘He-’

‘My brother said he may stay!’ Amalric roared. ‘He rules here, not you!’

John could feel the tension in the room. Balian cleared his throat and turned to John. ‘We were discussing strategy. Six days ago, Saladin’s army crossed the Jordan and sacked Beisan. They made camp here — ’ he pointed to the map on the table — ‘at the Spring of Goliath. We marched to the spring and forced him to withdraw to Mount Tabor.’

‘Where he sacked the monastery and surrounding villages,’ Guy noted.

‘An outrage that must not go unpunished!’ Reynald declared. ‘We must march to meet him.’

‘We would be fools to do so,’ Raymond countered.

‘And cowards to stay here.’

Raymond’s voice was quietly threatening. ‘I am no coward, Reynald. If you wish to test that truth, please step outside.’

‘Peace!’ Guy shouted. ‘We are not here to fight amongst ourselves. Reynald, you have had your say. Raymond, tell me what you propose.’

‘So long as we stay at La Sephorie, we can choose the time and place of our next battle. Saladin must pass this way if he wishes to attack Acre. If he marches on Jerusalem, we can follow and crush him against the walls of the city. If we attack now, then we leave behind a sure source of water and put ourselves at risk.’

‘Hmph. We marched once already, and Saladin fled before us,’ Reynald pointed out.

‘And the result of our efforts was a hundred sergeants with arrow wounds. Next time, we might not be so lucky. Tell them, John. You know Saladin better than any of us.’

All eyes turned to John. ‘Raymond is right,’ he said. ‘Saladin seeks to draw us out. He will march to meet us, only to retreat and draw us into a trap. It is the Saracen way.’

‘I, too, spent years amongst the Saracens,’ Reynald countered. ‘I know them as well as you, Saxon. When they spring their trap, we will be ready, and we will crush them.’ He looked to Guy. ‘Remember Montgisard!’

‘And Jacob’s Ford,’ Raymond retorted. ‘Just last week, Humphrey lost over half his men while marching up from Kerak.’

‘Do not listen to him, lord regent,’ Reynald insisted. ‘You know that he resents your rule. Raymond only seeks to deny you a chance at glory.’

‘You are regent, Guy,’ Raymond said. ‘Your purpose is not to win glory; it is to protect the Kingdom. The monastery at Mount Tabor can be rebuilt. Beisan can be rebuilt. But if we lose in the field, you will lose us the Kingdom.’

All eyes turned to Guy, but the regent hesitated still, rubbing at his dagger. He was waiting for someone to make the decision for him. No one spoke. Finally, Guy cleared his throat. ‘We will send out scouts. Once we know the enemy’s exact disposition, we will decide whether to march.’ Reynald shook his head and stormed from the room. ‘You are dismissed,’ Guy told the rest of the men.

Raymond fell in beside John as they left the keep. ‘Thank God you came,’ the count said. ‘I had feared Reynald would win the day. Guy is a good man, irresolute. Without his wife to lead him by the nose, he is as lost as a newborn puppy.’

‘He would make a poor king, then?’

Raymond snorted. ‘I would sooner Reynald rule. At least that bastard knows what he wants.’

Rasp. Rasp. Rasp. John sat outside his tent and drew the blade of his dagger over his whetstone. The moon had not yet risen and the night was dark, which suited his purposes. He could not see the keep, only a black space where there hung a single light. It was a candle, glowing in the chamber where Raymond had told him Guy slept. Abruptly, the light winked out. John returned the whetstone to the pouch at his belt, sheathed his blade, and rose. He raised the hood of the black cloak he wore and set out for the keep.

The camp was quiet. John kept well clear of the few men who were awake. He circled around to the north-west of the keep and, crawling on all fours, crept up the hill. There were no guards; they were kept away by the stench of piss and shit below the privy. That was where John headed. He reached the wall of the keep and edged along it until his boots sank in the filth. Above him, he could just make out where the privy jutted out from the tower. The wall before him was coated with piss and shit.

‘God help me,’ he muttered and crossed himself. He reached up and managed to squeeze his fingers into a narrow crack between two stones. His nose wrinkled as he pressed his body against the wall. For a moment, he thought he might retch. Then, gritting his teeth, he hauled himself upwards. He found a toehold and felt with his left hand for another point of purchase. He found it and pulled himself up further.

He made his way up the wall handhold by handhold and inch by inch. The smell had grown less rank by the time he reached the point where the bottom of the small stone enclosure that held the privy jutted out from the wall just above his head. The privy hole itself was behind him, some three feet away from the wall. To get to it, John would have to lean backwards, kick off the wall, and wedge his hands in the hole, all in one fluid movement. He could then wriggle his way upwards. If the lunge missed, however, then he would fall more than twenty feet. With any luck, the shit would cushion him.

He counted to three and then kicked off from the wall, thrusting his hands upwards and into the hole. The sides of the hole were wet with what he did not care to ponder, and John slipped a few inches before he caught himself. He hung there for a second and then began to inch his way upwards. He had just begun when someone stepped into the privy and urinated on him. John squeezed his eyes and mouth shut and held his breath. After a few seconds, the person finished, and a moment later, John heard the privy door open and close. He quickly wiggled the rest of the way through the hole, emerging into a small space with a door on the far side. He pulled off his filthy cloak and cleaned himself as best he could, then cracked open the door and looked out into an empty hallway. Guy’s room would be to the right. John tiptoed to his door. He turned the handle and pushed gently. It was unlocked. John drew his dagger and slipped inside.

He had hoped to find Guy asleep, but the regent was standing at the window in only a thin cotton shift. He turned. ‘John?’

John froze. If Guy called for the guards, he was as good as dead. The room was dark, and Guy seemed to have not seen the dagger. John turned slightly so that the blade was hidden by his profile. He bowed. ‘Lord regent.’

‘You have news of the scouts?’

‘The scouts?’ John’s mind was racing. He nodded. ‘Yes, they are-’

‘It can wait. Sit.’ Guy gestured to the bed. John managed to hide the dagger blade beneath his leg as he sat. The regent stayed at the window. ‘I am glad you came. I wish to apologize, John.’

John blinked. ‘My lord?’

‘For imprisoning you. Heraclius and Reynald urged me to. Why do they hate you so?’

‘Old disagreements, my lord.’

Guy nodded. ‘I was driven from France by men who hated me. And now I am to be king. I never wished it, John. But Sibylla dreams of the throne. She says I will be a great king.’ He sighed as he turned to look out of the window. John stood, the dagger in his hand. ‘I love her, but I sometimes feel I am only a pawn in some game she is playing. I have so many advisors telling me what to do. Sibylla. Heraclius. Reynald. I sometimes do not know who to trust.’

John lowered the dagger. This man was not worth killing. Heraclius and Reynald, they were the true danger. He was slipping the blade back into its sheath when there was a knock on the door.

‘Enter!’ Guy called.

Reynald stepped into the room. His eyes widened when he saw John. He sniffed the air. ‘You smell like shit, Saxon.’ He looked back to Guy. ‘The scouts have returned, lord regent. Saladin is no longer at Mount Tabor. His army’s tracks head south.’

‘Jerusalem,’ John said.

‘There are other targets in the south, lord regent. Kerak, Shawbak and Ascalon.’

The regent nodded. ‘You are right. Our southern border must be protected. You go to Kerak. I will ride for my lands in Ascalon. John, you are the abbot of Mount Sion. Your place is in Jerusalem. You will go there with Raymond to defend the city.’