Holy War

Chapter 5

October 1183: Kerak

Yusuf pulled up the hood of his cloak as a light rain began to fall, rippling the waters of the Dead Sea. It was the first rain of the year. Yusuf would see to it that a few sheep were slaughtered that night so the men could celebrate properly. Some had begun to pray in thanks. Others stood beside their horses, which were drinking from a stream that flowed into the sea. More men huddled under their cloaks and chewed on hard bread. Yusuf bit into his own piece and looked south towards Kerak.

His army had left Mount Tabor two weeks before. The feint north had served its purpose. Yusuf had drawn the Frankish army to Saffuriya, and while they sat there, Selim had led Egyptian troops up from the south. Today, Yusuf would join them at Kerak.

Yusuf turned at a sudden burst of merriment. Nu’man was emerging naked from the Dead Sea, and Gokbori was roaring with laughter, his belly shaking. ‘Never seen a real man before?’ Nu’man grumbled as he strode to his horse. He noticed Yusuf watching. ‘I wanted to see for myself, Malik.’

‘See what?’

‘Gokbori says the waters have healing properties.’

‘I’ve been drinking a spoonful a day for years,’ Gokbori declared. ‘Costs more than a few fals to have it shipped north, but it’s worth it. Look at me.’ He slapped his belly. ‘Strong as a mule.’

Yusuf could not help but smile. ‘Well, how do you feel, Nu’man?’

Nu’man shrugged as he pulled on his tunic. ‘Still too short.’ He pulled on a boot, then stopped and pointed to the north. ‘A scout is returning.’

Yusuf spotted the rider cantering along the shore of the lake. He had left a few men behind to keep track of the Frankish army.

The scout’s horse spattered Yusuf with mud as it was reined in before him. The scout swung from the saddle and prostrated himself. ‘My apologies, Malik!’

‘Get up. What news do you bring?’

‘The Frankish army has broken up. Most went to Jerusalem.’

‘And Reynald?’

‘He headed down the west side of the Dead Sea. At the pace he and his men were riding, they should have reached Kerak some time last week.’

‘Good. The bird has come home to roost.’ Yusuf looked to Nu’man. ‘Get dressed. I wish to reach Kerak before nightfall.’

They continued south along the shore. The rain stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds, transforming the sea from flint grey to a brilliant turquoise. Their Bedouin guides led them into a green valley that wound its way through the hills east of the sea. Yusuf saw the tall white walls of Kerak from more than a mile off. The castle sat on a spur of land that thrust out on to a barren stretch of white sand and dusty soil. Steep hills faced in stone dropped away from either side of the spur. There was no way up those hills. The attack would have to come along the neck of the spur.

Yusuf rode out from the hills and on to the arid plain. Nothing grew there, but Kerak’s wealth did not come from the land. It came from preying on the caravan route that ran from Damascus to Ayla, and from there across the Sinai to Cairo. To the north, hundreds of tents sat in the shadow cast by the castle above. A group of men rode out from the tents to meet the army. Yusuf recognized his brother Selim at the head. He had Yusuf’s sharp features and thin build, but he was half a head taller than his older brother.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother,’ Selim declared as he drew alongside Yusuf and leaned over to exchange the ritual kisses.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied. He reached out to touch his brother’s beard, which showed traces of grey. It still seemed only yesterday that Selim had been a fat-cheeked boy. ‘You grow old, Brother.’

Selim let out a short bark of laughter. ‘The camel calls the mule stubborn. Tell me, was it snowing in the hills, Brother? I see more white than black in your hair.’

‘A mark of wisdom,’ Yusuf replied with a smile. He looked to Kerak and grew serious. ‘How goes the siege?’

‘We arrived three days ago. We took the town easily enough, but the castle is another matter. The walls-’

A gust of wind brought with it the sound of music. Yusuf looked to Selim’s camp and frowned. ‘What is this?’

‘Not my men, I assure you, Brother. The Wolf is celebrating a wedding. His son-in-law Humphrey of Toron is marrying King Baldwin’s half-sister, Isabella.’ Selim spat in the dust. ‘The girl is only eleven. It is an abomination.’

Yusuf shrugged. Frankish marriage customs were no business of his. But if the girl were the king’s sister, that might create problems. ‘We must take the castle quickly. Tell me of the walls.’

‘I will show you, Brother.’

Yusuf followed Selim through the camp and on to a trail that zigzagged up to the plateau on which Kerak sat. A dozen men from Yusuf’s khaskiya followed them to the top. The light was brighter up here, where the sun had not yet set. They rode through the town and out on to the narrow spur of land that led to the castle. A line of four catapults stretched across the spur. As Yusuf watched, Selim’s men loaded a heavy stone into one of them. The catapult sprang into action, hurling the rock towards the castle. Yusuf lost track of it, then spotted it again just before it slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Tiny flakes of rock flew from the wall, but nothing more.

‘Rest for a moment,’ Selim told the men at the catapults as he rode past. Beyond the siege engines, an earthen barricade topped with spikes had been erected across the face of the spur. Three hundred mamluks stood watch behind it, ready in case of a sortie from the castle.

‘It is best if we continue on foot,’ Selim said. He dismounted and took hold of Yusuf’s stirrup.

‘Saqr, come with us,’ Yusuf said as he dismounted. He followed his brother through a narrow opening in the barricade. Ahead, the land of the spur had been cut away by the Franks to create a gap twenty feet across and ten feet deep. A bridge lay across the gap. As Yusuf crossed, he looked down and saw burnt timbers on the ground below.

‘They burned the bridge,’ Selim explained. ‘We had to build a new one.’

‘Be sure to post guards at night, in case they seek to burn this one.’

They stopped at the far side, only fifty yards from the castle wall. The music had become much louder — flutes were playing a cheerful melody over the strumming of a lute.

‘We should go no closer,’ Selim cautioned. ‘They have crossbowmen on the wall.’

The wall was higher on the right, where it protected the upper court of the castle. Here and there, the facade was rough where bits of stone had fallen away, and Yusuf saw a few cracks near the top of the lower wall. That was the extent of the damage from the catapults. ‘Concentrate the bombardment on the walls of the lower court,’ he said. ‘When last I besieged Kerak, those walls fell first. Once we take the lower court, we can storm the upper.’ He put a hand on Selim’s shoulder. ‘You have done well, Brother.’

‘I am glad you are pleased. Perhaps you would grant me a request?’

‘Name it.’

‘I am wasted counting coins in Cairo, Brother. The battle is in the north, with Mosul and the Franks. When we are done here, give me Aleppo.’

Yusuf’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘My son Az-Zahir rules in Aleppo.’

‘He is clever, Brother, but he is only a boy. I will teach him how to govern.’

‘And who would govern Egypt for me with you gone?’

‘Ubadah.’

‘Our nephew is too impulsive.’

‘A few years counting coins might help cool his temper.’

Yusuf rubbed his beard. ‘I will think on it.’

‘Shukran Allah. Now come, Brother. I am staying in the town. I have prepared refreshments in my home.’

When they had crossed the bridge there were shouts of alarm from amongst Selim’s men, who began to pour forth from behind the barricade. Yusuf turned to see the gates of Kerak swing open. His hand fell to his sword hilt. But this was no attack. Two stooped old men in tunics came out. Each carried a platter heaped with food. Yusuf motioned for the troops to stay back. ‘Saqr, search them.’

Saqr met the men on the far side of the bridge, and they submitted to his search. ‘They bear no weapons, Malik.’

Yusuf waved them forward. One man carried a platter with a whole roast suckling pig. Selim paled at the sight of it. The other carried a pitcher of wine and a haunch of lamb, dripping with bloody juices. It was clearly not halal.

Yusuf gestured to the food. ‘What is this?’ he asked in Frankish.

‘From our lord,’ the man with the pig said. He pointed back to the wall. Squinting, Yusuf could just make out Reynald.

‘Saladin!’ the lord of Kerak shouted. ‘You honour me by your presence at the marriage of my son. I have sent you these dishes so that you may take part in the feast!’

‘The insolent dog,’ Selim spat. He knocked the platters to the ground. The wine from the pitcher soaked quickly into the sandy soil.

‘Your master has our answer,’ Yusuf told the old men. He turned his back to them and strode through the barricade to where the catapults stood. ‘Resume your work,’ he told the men. ‘Chase that faithless dog from the wall.’

Rain pitter-pattered off the hood of Yusuf’s cloak, and the muddy ground sucked at his boots as he and Saqr trudged towards the walls of Kerak for Yusuf’s daily inspection. At this distance, the walls appeared as only a vague shape looming through the curtain of rain. Frequent showers had plagued them throughout the first month of the siege, leaving the bowstrings of his men slack and making it impossible to roll a ram through the mud to the citadel gate. Yusuf had never known such a wet autumn. As he passed the catapults, one of them swung into action. Its basket had filled with rain, and it hurled a shower of water along with its stone. Yusuf lost track of the projectile against the cloudy sky, but he heard the loud crack as it struck the walls. At the barricade, the mamluks were huddled under their cloaks. They straightened as Yusuf approached.

‘What did he send today?’ Every day, Reynald sent Yusuf a new dish. None was halal. They were both an insult and a message: the citadel had plenty of food and could hold out for weeks to come.

‘Some foul thing,’ one of the guards replied. ‘I have never seen the like.’ He signalled to another man, who brought forth a basket. It held sausages that were almost black, with just a faint reddish sheen. ‘They smell of blood.’

‘Put them with the rest.’ After that first day, Yusuf had begun setting the dishes aside. When Kerak fell, he planned to shove them down Reynald’s throat. He stepped through the barricade and strode across the bridge. The rain was heavy, and he had to get close to clearly see the walls. The ground before them was a sea of churned-up mud littered with the debris left by half a dozen assaults. Yusuf had to pick his way carefully in order to avoid the broken arrow shafts and the occasional blade buried in the mud. He stopped within thirty yards of the castle — well within crossbow range on a dry day, but the rain would have played havoc with the crossbow strings, as with his men’s bows. Besides, the wall was empty save for the impaled heads of a dozen of Yusuf’s men, who had fallen in battle, and two guards, who were hunched under their cloaks, paying him little mind. He turned his attention to the lower wall. A network of cracks ran across its face and pieces of the battlement had been knocked away, but the wall looked no closer to falling than it had a week before. Yusuf frowned. He was running out of time. The Frankish army was on its way. And his scouts told him that it was not Raymond or Guy who led it, but King Baldwin himself and a priest: John.

Yusuf heard squelching footsteps approach from behind. It was Selim. ‘The scouts have returned,’ Yusuf’s brother said as he splashed to his side. ‘The Franks are only two days off, less if the rain stops.’

Yusuf nodded. He continued to examine the wall. He looked again to the guards huddled under their cloaks. A week ago, Yusuf had sent a dozen men under cover of darkness to scale the wall and open the gates. They had failed, but perhaps if he tried again, during heavy rain. .

Selim guessed what he was thinking. ‘We have done what we can here, Brother. Another attack will only waste lives.’

‘We need Reynald dead.’

‘The Franks march with a thousand knights and nearly ten thousand sergeants. If we are caught between their army and Kerak, they will grind us to dust against its walls. Even if we take Kerak, we will only find ourselves besieged in turn.’

It was all true. And yet. . ‘Our family comes from nothing, Selim. We are Kurds, son of a provincial governor in Tikrit. My authority rests on one thing and one thing alone: the defence of Islam against the Franks. Reynald raided to the very doorstep of Mecca and Medina. He must be brought to account.’

‘You wrong yourself, Brother. Your people love you. Your men love you. Where you lead, they will follow.’ Selim put his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will be back, Yusuf. Once we have Mosul, the Franks will not have enough men to resist us. Reynald will then be punished. Let me go to Aleppo and prepare the attack on Mosul.’

Yusuf’s gut was burning again. Defeat was a bitter draught to swallow. But he did miss Shamsa and his children. He had been too long gone from them. He was sure his men missed their homes as well. ‘Very well, Brother. Go north and gather gold and supplies for a campaign. Inform Ubadah that he is to rule in Cairo.’

‘Yes, Brother.’

Yusuf remained before the walls while the tents were taken down and stowed and the baggage packed. The catapults were too heavy to carry along the muddy roads to Damascus and Cairo, so they were broken down and the wood hacked to pieces. The stones that had been collected as ammunition were rolled off the spur to fall to the plain below. The rain had stopped when Yusuf saw a new figure emerge on the wall. Reynald.

‘Saladin!’ the Frankish lord shouted. ‘I am sad to see you go. I enjoyed watching your men die before my walls.’ He gestured to the impaled heads. ‘I was hoping to add you to my little collection.’

Yusuf made no reply.

‘Allow me to make you one last gift before you go.’ Reynald signalled and two men-at-arms dragged forth a man to stand beside him. The man was clearly a Muslim, with olive skin and a long black beard. He must have been captured during one of the assaults on the wall. He was naked and shivering in the cold. Reynald produced a knife. ‘I know how dearly you love cock, Saladin. Here-’ The mamluk cried out in pain as Reynald sliced off his member. He threw it from the wall towards Yusuf. The mamluk was sobbing. ‘He sounds like a woman, does he not?’ Reynald demanded. ‘Pitiful. I will shut him up.’ The mamluk shrieked in pain as Reynald carved out his tongue.

Yusuf turned away, his jaw clenched. ‘Saqr, have the village set on fire. Tear down what will not burn. And send raiders to ravage Reynald’s lands. Leave no crops in the valleys. Leave him nothing.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf strode away from the wall. He would return once Mosul was his. Reynald would pay, and the Kingdom with him.

‘What is happening, John?’ Baldwin asked. The king wore mail, but he would not be riding into battle. He could not see, nor could he walk. He sat in a chair mounted on poles and carried by four men. Leprosy had ravaged his face during his long illness, and he now wore a mask of silver in which only his sightless eyes moved. It created an unnerving impression.

‘The Saracen army is gone,’ John reported from where he sat on horseback beside the king. The rain had stopped the day before, but the ground was still soft, and the Saracen retreat had turned the plain below Kerak into a muddy expanse dotted with the remains of cooking fires.

‘Good.’ Baldwin’s voice took on a hard edge. ‘Now we will deal with Reynald. John-’

The king was interrupted by a fit of coughing. His health was still fragile. Within a week of regaining consciousness, he had named John commander of the army and set out for Kerak. They had left the constable Amalric confined in the palace under Joscelin’s guard. Raymond had been sent to Ascalon to fetch Guy and Sibylla back to Jerusalem.

Baldwin wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief as the coughing fit past. The king quickly tucked the handkerchief back into his robes, but not before John noticed that it was spotted with blood. When Baldwin spoke again, his voice was raspy. ‘Take control of the citadel. Disarm Reynald’s men, but do them no harm. When the citadel is in hand, I will come for Reynald. I want him brought before me in chains. Alive.’

John frowned. Chains were not what he had in mind. He had come to Kerak to kill Reynald. Now that Baldwin had recovered, Guy did not matter. The regent was only a fool. Reynald was dangerous; too dangerous to live. ‘If he resists, Your Grace, I may have to use force.’

Baldwin turned his blind eyes towards John. ‘We are not here for vengeance, John.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

John rode a short distance to where Balian of Ibelin sat astride a magnificent roan of easily sixteen hands. Balian wore a new coat of mail, and over it a shining steel breastplate emblazoned with his arms, a red cross on a field of gold. With his long dark hair and handsome features, he looked the part of a king more than Baldwin ever would.

‘We are to seize control of the citadel,’ John told him. ‘A thousand sergeants should be more than sufficient. When we enter, you will take charge of the gates and lower court. I will take the upper court and the keep. Tell the sergeants I want three spearmen beside every one of Reynald’s men.’

‘And what of Reynald?’ Balian asked.

‘Leave him to me. Aestan!’ The Saxon was at his side at once. ‘Fetch a pair of shackles. Be certain they are heavy.’

While Balian gathered the men, John checked his armour. He wore a mail hauberk with long sleeves under a surcoat blazoned with the cross of Mount Sion. He took leather mittens backed with mail from his saddlebag and pulled them on, and then took his buckler from where it hung on his saddle. The buckler was a circular shield that John gripped in his fist. It was much smaller than the kite-shaped shields knights usually carried, but John would be facing no arrows or lances. He preferred the buckler for hand-to-hand combat.

Balian had formed the men into a column ten wide. John rode to their head and raised his voice. ‘The King has declared Reynald a prisoner of the Crown. We are here to take him, not to fight his men! Keep your swords sheathed and your spears on your shoulder unless you are told otherwise. If so much as one of Reynald’s men is injured or killed without provocation, I will see the man who did it hang.’

‘A stirring speech,’ Balian said with a wry smile.

‘I do not want them stirred.’

John turned his horse and urged it to a walk. Balian fell in beside him. Aestan took his place in the front row of the column, beside the man carrying the standard of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. They crossed muddy ground dotted with puddles and the charred remains of campfires. At the foot of the plateau, they took a zigzagging trail up to the town of Kerak. A few of the inhabitants had already left the fortress to return to their homes, but there was nothing to return to. The village of Kerak had been reduced to tumbled stone and broken timber. Some stood dejected, staring glassy-eyed at the remains of their homes. Others wept quietly. One old man ran to Balian and bowed.

‘My lord!’ he cried, mistaking him for the king. ‘Help us, Your Grace! The sand devils took everything. Everything!’

John could not help the man. He rode on through the town and out on to the spur. The Saracens had built a barricade across it. John passed through and could now see men lining the walls ahead. They began to cheer as John crossed the bridge leading to the castle. The gates swung open, and a fleshy, sunburnt man in mail hurried forward to meet them.

‘Thank God you have come, Your Grace!’ He knelt before Balian.

‘Stand up,’ John told him as he dismounted. ‘He is not the King. Where is your lord?’

‘He awaits you in the upper court,’ the sunburnt man said.

John turned to Balian. ‘You know what to do.’

Balian’s men spread out around the lower court. John headed up the ramp to the upper court, his sergeants trooping after him. Around a hundred of Reynald’s men lined the walls. John paused once he was through the gate in order to allow his own men to spread out. His grip tightened around the handle of his mace. On the far side of the courtyard, Reynald stood near the entrance to the keep. He was dressed in mail, a sword at his side. Beside him stood his wife, his son-in-law Humphrey, and the boy’s new wife Isabella. She was no more than a girl, still flat-chested and narrow-hipped. She gripped the hand of Reynald’s wife Stephanie as if it were a lifeline.

When John’s men were in place, he strode forward. Reynald’s expression darkened when he recognized John. ‘Where is Guy?’ he demanded.

‘In Ascalon. It is Baldwin who leads the army. He has sent me to take charge of the castle.’

‘Take charge? Kerak is mine.’ Reynald’s hand dropped to his sword.

Good. Draw that sword, and I will kill you. John raised his voice so that Reynald’s men could hear. ‘The King has declared Reynald of Chatillon a prisoner of the Crown. Throw down your arms, and there will be no bloodshed.’

Each of Reynald’s men found himself confronted with three spear tips. One man drew his sword and was impaled through the chest. The others began to drop their weapons.

Reynald’s face purpled with rage. ‘How dare you! I held Kerak against the Saracens for over a month. The King should be thanking me.’

John gestured to Aestan, who held a pair of heavy iron manacles. ‘Step inside, Reynald,’ John said quietly, ‘unless you wish to be manacled before your family and your men.’

‘Deceitful bastard,’ Reynald growled. ‘I should have killed you when I had the chance.’ He spat at John’s feet, then turned and strode towards the keep. Aestan and three other sergeants fell in around him.

John followed them inside. ‘This way.’ He turned into a long hall dimly lit by light filtering in through the loopholes on the right-hand wall. ‘Leave us,’ John told his men.

‘But domne!’ Aestan protested.

‘Go! And see that we are not disturbed.’ The men trooped out and Aestan closed the door behind him. John took his mace from his belt as he turned to Reynald. ‘You wish to kill me, Reynald? Now is your chance.’

Reynald’s eyes narrowed. ‘What trick is this, Saxon?’

‘No trick.’ John adopted a fighting stance: legs wide, mace raised, his body turned so that his buckler was towards his foe. Reynald drew his sword and held it with both hands. John met his eyes. ‘I have waited a long time for this. You betrayed me when I first came to the Holy Land. You sent men to kill me. You-’

‘Enough talk.’ Reynald stepped forward and took a two-handed cut at John’s throat. John blocked with his buckler, and Reynald brought his blade slicing back towards John’s gut. John jumped back out of the way and swung his mace for his opponent’s head. Reynald knocked the mace aside and charged. He planted his shoulder in John’s gut, lifting him from the ground and slamming him down. The two men skidded a few feet on the stone floor. John dropped his shield and managed to push Reynald off him. He rolled away just before Reynald’s sword struck where his head had been.

John was breathing hard as he scrambled to his feet. He was still not fully recovered from his time in prison, and Reynald was bigger and stronger. He backed away and circled to Reynald’s left. John saw Reynald’s knuckles whiten around his sword hilt a moment before he charged. John was already moving. He sprang to the right, avoiding the thrust, and brought his mace down on Reynald’s shoulder.

Reynald roared with pain as he spun to face John. His left arm now hung limp at his side. ‘I’ll gut you, Saxon!’

‘Come and try.’

Reynald advanced more cautiously this time. He lunged, and John skipped back out of the way. Reynald followed with a backhanded slash towards John’s face. John knelt, and the sword flashed over his head. He slammed his mace into the side of Reynald’s knee. Reynald dropped his sword and collapsed, clutching his leg. John knelt on his chest and raised his mace.

Reynald spat in his face. ‘Come on, you faithless dog. Do it!’

John’s grip tightened on the mace.

‘John! Stop!’

John looked up to see the king. Baldwin’s chair had been set down just inside the door. Reynald’s wife Stephanie was beside the chair, whispering urgently to the king. Baldwin raised a hand to silence her. ‘I have not come for Reynald’s life,’ he declared. ‘I have come to dispense justice.’

John moved aside and Reynald pushed himself to his feet. He leaned heavily on his sword. ‘Justice, Your Grace? What sort of justice is it that strikes a loyal servant of the King? I have fought at the head of your armies. I have fought when others cowered behind unholy treaties with the infidel. Now, you send this Saxon dog to my castle with orders to put me in chains? I am a lord. I demand to be judged by my peers.’

‘You will be judged, Reynald. Never fear. Chain him and bring him before me.’

A dozen sergeants with spears surrounded Reynald. Aestan came forward with the manacles. John took Reynald’s sword and closed one of the manacles around his left hand.

‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you, Saxon?’ Reynald snarled.

John ignored him as he manacled the other hand. He tugged on the chain lead, and Reynald limped forward to stand before the king. Baldwin’s silver mask glinted in the light streaming through the loopholes.

Reynald bowed with some difficulty. ‘Tell me my so-called crimes, Your Grace. I am ready to answer for them.’

‘You conspired with Guy to remove me from the throne. A dozen men attest that you called him king. I am not dead yet, Reynald.’

‘Of course not, Your Grace. My apologies if I misspoke when addressing the Regent.’

Baldwin waved aside the apology. He leaned forward. ‘How do you answer to the charge that you sought to remove me and place Guy on the throne?’

Reynald straightened, his shoulders back and his head held high. ‘I do not deny it.’ Baldwin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the arms of his chair, but Reynald went on. ‘The Kingdom needs a king. You were incapacitated, and the doctors feared the worse. We could not wait forever for a recovery that seemed doubtful.’

‘You swore fealty to me. It was your duty to wait.’

‘It is my duty to defend the Kingdom.’

‘If you wish to defend the Kingdom, then what possessed you to attack the ports of Medina and Mecca? You might have doomed us all with your mad raid. I have a mind to take your head for it.’

The colour drained from Reynald’s face as he realized the severity of his situation. He licked his lips. ‘It was Guy, Your Grace. He ordered me to do it. He said he wanted to start his reign with a great gesture, to show the infidels that they were not safe anywhere.’

‘He lies to save his life, Your Grace,’ John interrupted.

Baldwin raised a hand for silence. ‘If what you say is true, Reynald, then Guy is an even greater fool than you.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

Baldwin sat back and slumped in his chair. He was clearly exhausted. John had forgotten how ill he was. ‘You will swear loyalty to the throne,’ he said in a tired voice.

‘I swear it, Your Grace.’ Reynald knelt. ‘My sword is yours until the day I die.’

‘You will lead your men when and where I command. Until then, see that you stay in your castle. You may go.’

Reynald rose and bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He limped from the room.

‘But, Your Grace!’ John declared when he had gone. ‘You cannot mean to let him keep Kerak?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘He is a fool, but a brave fool, John. We have precious few knights his equal. The Saracens fear him. If properly muzzled, Reynald can be useful.’ The king raised his voice. ‘Porters! Take me to my bed. I must rest. Tomorrow, we start for Jerusalem. It is time I dealt with Guy, my sister, and that snake Heraclius.’

December 1183: Jerusalem

The bells were tolling as John walked through the small cloister of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Baldwin had restored him to his post as archdeacon of the church, but John was not headed to prayers. He had another task to perform. He wore mail and a mace hung from his belt. Ten sergeants marched behind him, Aestan at their head.

From the cloister, they passed through a hall and on to the entryway that gave access to the palace of the patriarch. The door was guarded by four knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Jerusalem cross blazoned on their surcoats.

‘I have come to see the Patriarch,’ John told them. He held up a parchment with the royal seal at the bottom. ‘King’s business.’

The guards eyed the document and the men behind John. They stepped aside and pulled the doors open. The floor of the patriarch’s palace was covered with thick carpets that swallowed up the sound of John’s boots. Gold and silver thread glittered in the rich tapestries that hung on the walls. The air smelt of incense. John took the stairs to Heraclius’s private suites. Two more guards stood at the door.

John presented the parchment. ‘Stand aside. I come on King’s business.’

‘The King has no authority here.’

John’s hand went to his mace. ‘Step aside.’ This time, it was a threat. The guards hesitated a moment longer, then moved aside. John entered to find Heraclius at table. He wore his robes of silk open at the front. A buxom young blonde in a translucent cotton shift sat on his lap. Her braying laughter stopped short at the sight of John.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Heraclius demanded.

‘The King has requested your presence.’

‘I am the Patriarch, not some servant to be-’

John pushed the woman off his lap and grabbed Heraclius by the arm, hauling him from the table.

‘Unhand me!’ Heraclius squealed as he struggled in vain to pull free of John’s grip. ‘I am your superior!’

John took the mace from his belt. ‘I would be only too happy to use force to compel you to come, Heraclius.’

The patriarch stopped struggling. ‘That will not be necessary.’ He tied his robes about him and strode stiffly through the door, John at his back. The sergeants fell in around them.

It was a short walk under clear winter skies from the patriarch’s palace to that of the king. Their escort left them at the palace gate, and John took Heraclius by the arm and guided him to the king’s large audience chamber. The vaulted hall was crowded. Guards lined the walls and barons and courtiers stood before them. At the centre of the hall, Guy stood with his wife Sibylla and his brother Amalric. The two men shifted nervously. Sibylla stood unmoving, her head held high. She wore a tight-fitting caftan that accentuated her slender figure. Her long auburn hair hung loose down her back, and she had decorated her eyes with kohl.

Baldwin sat on his throne across from Sibylla. He wore full regalia, an ermine-lined cape over his shoulders and the crown of Jerusalem on his head. The silver mask hid his face. He clutched a scroll in his right hand. A second throne had been set beside him and on it sat his nephew, Sibylla’s son Baldwin. The sickly child also wore royal robes and a thin crown. Behind the throne stood Agnes, straight-backed and regal. Raymond, Joscelin and Balian flanked her, along with Peter, the bishop of Tripoli, whom Baldwin had named chancellor to replace William.

John guided Heraclius to stand beside Guy and then went to join the others behind the throne. ‘I have brought Heraclius, Your Grace,’ he whispered to the blind king.

‘All are present?’ the king asked.

‘The traitors stand before you,’ Agnes told him.

‘Then we will begin.’ Baldwin raised the scroll and tossed it to land at Amalric’s feet. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

The constable picked up the scroll and unrolled it. His forehead creased in confusion. ‘I have never seen this document.’

Beside him, Guy had paled. ‘My lord, I never wished to be king. I-’

‘Silence! I do not wish to hear you snivel. I know well enough that this plot was not hatched by you, Guy. You and your brother are too simple for such treachery.’

Guy bowed. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Beside John, Balian sniggered.

‘This bears the stamp of Heraclius and my sister,’ Baldwin said.

‘It was Sibylla!’ Heraclius squealed. ‘She asked my advice on how to draw up such a document. I gave it to her, nothing more. I will swear it on the True Cross itself.’

‘What do you say to this, Sister?’

Sibylla looked down her thin nose at her brother. ‘I am a princess and heir to the throne. I will not suffer this charade of a trial. Do what you will to me and be done with it.’

‘Very well.’ Baldwin cleared his throat. ‘Amalric, I believe you innocent. You are a brave man. If you swear to serve me faithfully, then you shall continue in your post as constable.’

‘I swear it, Your Grace.’

Baldwin turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the Patriarch. ‘Heraclius, you have your post by the will of God; it is not for me to gainsay Him. But to demonstrate your loyalty, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre shall contribute fifty thousand bezants to the Crown for the defence of the Kingdom. John assures me that you have the sum.’

Heraclius looked ill. ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Guy of Lusignan,’ Baldwin declared, ‘you are regent no longer.’

‘And who shall rule?’ Sibylla asked with a smirk. ‘You, Brother? You are no king. You are a cripple.’

The silver mask hid Baldwin’s expression, but his silence betrayed his anger. When he finally spoke, his voice grated like two stones rubbing together. ‘From this moment, my nephew Baldwin will rule beside me. When I die, it is he who will succeed me, not you, Sibylla.’

‘You cannot do this, Brother! The Haute Cour-’

‘- has already sanctioned my command.’

‘But, Your Grace,’ Guy ventured. ‘Young Baldwin is only a child of six.’

‘Raymond of Tripoli shall serve as regent until the boy comes of age. You, Guy, will take that scheming wife of yours and return to Ascalon. If either of you shows your face in Jerusalem without my permission, I will have your head.’

Sibylla glared at her brother for a moment longer, and then the arrogance left her. She slumped to the floor and began to weep. ‘Brother, please! For the love I bear you, do not do this!’

‘Save your false tears, Sister. They will not move me.’

Sibylla rose, her tears gone and her face now red with rage. She pointed to Agnes. ‘This is your doing! You always favoured that diseased cripple over me. You will pay for this!’ She stormed out. Guy followed.

‘That went well,’ Balian murmured.

‘Do not take Sibylla’s anger lightly, Balian,’ Agnes cautioned. ‘There is much of me in her. She is dangerous, more dangerous than a thousand Saracens.’