Kingdom

Chapter 15

MARCH 1174: JERUSALEM

John pulled his cloak tight about him as he stepped into the chill air atop one of the towers of the palace of Jerusalem. Winter had passed but the mornings were still cold. John could see the breath of Cephas — a stooped Syrian Christian with a curly grey beard — as he pottered about the cages of the royal dovecote. He had explained to John that the pigeons could cover more than five hundred miles in a single day and find their way home from as far off as Constantinople.

‘Twelve today,’ Cephas said as handed John a box filled with capsules, each of which John knew held a tiny scroll of paper.

‘Thank you, Cephas.’ John carried the box to the palace chancellery. Baldwin was already seated at the table. Ever since John had returned from Kerak last July, Baldwin had been helping him sift through the correspondence that came to the palace. William felt that it was a good way for him to learn statecraft. John handed him six of the capsules and then sat on the opposite side of the table and unrolled a scroll. He squinted as he read the minuscule Arabic script.

It was a detailed report from one of the Kingdom’s spies in Damascus. The spy provided the exact number of pack animals the army had gathered; the most accurate predictor of the size of an army. ‘Nur ad-Din has raised an army of ten thousand,’ John said to Baldwin.

Baldwin looked up from the report he was reading. The young prince’s disease had advanced. He now had small red lesions on his forehead, and his eyelashes and eyebrows had fallen out, giving him a strange appearance. Other than that, he looked like a thinner version of his blond, square-jawed father. ‘Such a force could threaten Jerusalem,’ the prince noted.

‘Jerusalem is not its target. Our source says that Nur ad-Din is headed for Egypt.’

Baldwin frowned. ‘That is odd.’ The prince held up a scroll. ‘I have a report from Cairo here. The Egyptians are making no preparations for war. Indeed, Saladin has recently sent five thousand of his best men out of the country.’ He glanced at the parchment he had been reading. ‘They appear to be headed to Yemen under the command of his brother, Turan.’

It was John’s turn to frown. He took the paper from Baldwin’s hand. The prince had not misread it. ‘Why would Saladin do such a thing?’

‘It is disappointing indeed. My father had hoped that the war between Nur ad-Din and Saladin would be long and bloody. While they battled both Egypt and Syria would have been ours for the taking.’ The prince bit at his thumbnail while he thought. ‘Perhaps we can still take Damascus while Nur ad-Din is on campaign in Egypt.’ He made a note on one of the papers before him and then cursed as he mishandled the quill and a blob of ink marred the page. The numbness in his hands made writing difficult. In anger, he snapped the quill in two. John handed him another, but the prince waved it away. ‘It is not the quill that troubles me,’ he said peevishly. ‘I cannot concentrate today.’

‘Why?’ John asked, although he could guess the reason well enough.

‘She is here.’

John did not need to ask who ‘she’ was. Baldwin’s mother, Agnes de Courtenay, had arrived in Jerusalem the previous day. It was her first visit to the city since John’s return from Egypt.

‘I wish to see her,’ Baldwin said.

John shook his head. ‘Your father would not approve.’

‘That did not stop you before.’

‘You were a child then, and disobedience in a child is easily forgiven. You are thirteen now, Baldwin. I can no longer allow you to flout your father’s commands.’ That was only part of the truth. He had departed Jerusalem without a word to Agnes, and she was not the sort of woman to suffer such a slight lightly.

Baldwin rose. ‘I am a prince, John. I do not need your permission.’

John watched the prince leave and then turned back to the report he had been reading. The curving Arabic letters swam before his eyes. He could not help but think of Agnes, of her green eyes and her high musical laugh. While in Egypt, he had missed her more than he cared to admit. He rose and hurried after Baldwin, catching up with the prince as he exited the palace grounds.

Baldwin grinned. ‘I knew you would want to see her.’

‘It is my duty to look after you, my lord.’

Baldwin continued grinning, but said nothing. They walked in companionable silence to the Syrian quarter. The door to Agnes’s home opened before John even knocked. The same sallow, thin manservant stood in the doorway. He bowed when he saw Baldwin. ‘My lord.’ He nodded to John. ‘Father.’

The servant led them through the tiled entryway and into the courtyard. Agnes met them there. She was nearly forty now, but she had lost none of her beauty. Her tight-fitting blue silk caftan displayed her slim figure to advantage, and the golden hair that fell down below her shoulders showed not a trace of grey.

‘My son!’ she cried as she embraced Baldwin. Then she held him at arm’s length. ‘You are so tall! Like your father. And John!’

Agnes approached as if to embrace him, but John bowed and kissed her hand. ‘My lady.’

The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way that John knew meant she was amused. ‘So good to see you again, Father,’ she said. ‘You must tell me all about your adventures in Egypt.’

‘There is little to tell, my lady.’

‘I am sure that is not true.’ Agnes went back to Baldwin and put her arm around him. ‘You are a man now, my son.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘And strong. You must be a fierce warrior.’

Baldwin blushed. ‘I am adequate.’

‘I am sure you are more than that.’

‘My hands-’

Agnes pressed her lips together in a thin line. ‘I’ll hear none of that. The battlefield is no place for excuses.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

She smiled, all good cheer again. ‘Perhaps you can show me later. I have kept your practice swords. Now come inside. I wish to hear of your studies, your training, and-’ she winked ‘-your loves.’

Baldwin flushed scarlet. ‘Mother!’

‘Ah, I see that you do have something to tell.’

John followed them inside and sat quietly while Agnes talked with her son, plying him with questions, flattering him, offering advice. The boy had not seen her in three years, yet he fell under her spell immediately. She had that power over men. Her attention was like the sun, and they longed to bask in its warmth.

Finally, Agnes sent Baldwin away to retrieve the wooden practice swords and turned her green eyes on John. ‘You have been very quiet, John.’

‘I have little to say, my lady.’

She pouted playfully. ‘You could say that you have missed me, that you are overjoyed to see me again.’

‘I have, and I am.’

‘You do not look it. You look as if you are frightened of me.’

‘I am that, too.’

She gently touched his arm. ‘There is no need to be frightened.’

John could feel the hairs on his arm stand up as she ran her fingers lightly from his elbow to his hand. ‘What brings you to Jerusalem, my lady?’

She smiled slyly. ‘Would you believe me if I said it was you?’

‘No.’

‘That is what I missed most about you, John. You are so refreshingly blunt, so unlike the other men in my life. My husband Reginald is a bore.’ Her smile faded, and she became serious. ‘Baldwin will be of age soon. That is why I am here, to help him become king.’

‘Why should he need your help? He is Amalric’s son and heir.’

‘Amalric does not plan for Baldwin to rule. He believes him to be cursed by God. Baldwin’s sister Sibylla is almost of an age to marry. It is her child that will take the throne, not Baldwin.’

John frowned. ‘But William-’

‘William agrees with Amalric.’ Agnes met his eyes. ‘We both want what is best for Baldwin, John. William does not. When Amalric is gone, you will have to decide whose side you are on. You could go far, if you would let me help you. You could be patriarch, even.’

‘Amalric is younger than I. He will be king for many years yet.’

‘Even kings die.’ Agnes cocked her head at the sound of Baldwin’s footsteps approaching down the hall. ‘Say nothing of this to him. The boy does not know.’ She clapped her hands with pleasure as Baldwin entered. ‘Ah! You have found the swords. Come, John. You must show me what my son has learned.’

MAY 1174: CAIRO

Yusuf paced back and forth before the window in his bedroom, a crumpled scrap of paper in his hand. The message had been sent by pigeon from one of his spies in Damascus. Nur ad-Din’s army had left the city two days ago. Yusuf had hoped to stay in Cairo until Shamsa delivered, but he could delay no longer. He would leave tomorrow to meet his fate.

‘Please, stop pacing and sit down,’ Shamsa said as she patted the bed beside her. She lay propped up by pillows. Her loose silk robe was untied in front, leaving her swollen belly exposed. Yusuf came and sat beside her. He could see movement under the skin of her stomach. This child had been more active than the others. He — Yusuf already thought of him as another son — seemed eager to enter the world.

‘What are you thinking of?’ Shamsa asked.

‘Of you.’ He touched her stomach, feeling a strange bulge on the left side — an elbow, or perhaps a head. ‘Of the child inside of you. You should leave for Aden soon. Turan has taken the city.’

‘I do not wish to go.’

‘You must.’

She took his hand. ‘You can stay, Yusuf. Fight! Defend your kingdom.’

‘And betray my lord?’

‘Better that than betray your sons. What will become of them?’

‘They will be safe in Yemen. It is far from Nur ad-Din’s lands.’

‘Yemen.’ Shamsa grimaced as if the word left a foul taste in her mouth. ‘Here they are princes of Egypt. They will be nothing there.’

‘There are more important things than power and wealth.’

‘So says a man who has never been poor.’

‘Even the poor man treasures honour, Shamsa.’

‘That is because it is all he has.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she were watching events from her past. She looked back to him. ‘You do not have to fight. There are other ways. When you eliminated the Caliph-’

‘No!’ Yusuf resumed his pacing. ‘I will not resort to murder. Never again. I am a man of honour, a warrior.’

‘A warrior who refuses to fight,’ she said sharply. ‘There is another word for that, one that your emirs know well.’

He flinched. ‘I am no coward. I fight when and where my lord wills it.’

‘Nur ad-Din is not coming to recruit you for battle, Yusuf. He wants your head.’

‘And he shall have it!’ he shouted. Shamsa winced, and her hands went to her belly. All anger drained from Yusuf. ‘Forgive me. I should not vent my anger on you. Are you well?’

‘It is nothing. The baby is shifting.’

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

Ubadah stepped into the room. He was sixteen now, and the soft lines of his face had given way to sharper angles. He looked more like John than ever.

‘What is it?’ Yusuf asked.

‘You are needed in the council chamber, Uncle.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘At this hour? Who sent you?’

‘Selim. He is there with Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Imad ad-Din.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to curse his brother’s impertinence, but the words died on his lips. His stomach began to churn. Was this a mutiny? Why else would his leading councillors summon him to the council chamber? Yusuf knew they did not approve of his refusal to fight. Had they decided to resist Nur ad-Din, even if that meant removing their king? Ubadah’s face told him nothing.

‘Ubadah, you will stay here. Saqr!’ The head of his khaskiya entered immediately. ‘I want a dozen men of my private guard here, now.’

Yusuf waited for the guardsmen to gather, then set out across the palace. He paused at the stairs to the council chamber. ‘Remain here,’ he told Saqr. ‘If you hear me cry out, you are to come with swords drawn. Kill everyone. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the council chamber. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

The men turned to face him. Selim stepped forward and handed him a creased sheet of paper. Yusuf’s eyes widened as he read the short note: Nur ad-Din is dead. He died suddenly, only two days’ march from Damascus. He looked up. ‘Is this true?’

‘We have received other messages confirming it,’ Imad ad-Din said.

Yusuf read the message again. He could scarcely believe it.

Selim place a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘You were willing to die for the good of Islam, for the good of our people, Brother. Allah has rewarded your faith. I am sorry I doubted you.’

‘Shukran, Brother,’ Yusuf said and then scowled as a suspicion rose in his mind. The note said Nur ad-Din had died suddenly. Could it have been murder? Gumushtagin’s doing? No. The eunuch had made it clear that he was unable to move against Nur ad-Din without Yusuf’s help. Who, then? Yusuf looked at the men before him. ‘Do any of you know the cause of Nur ad-Din’s death?’

Imad ad-Din shrugged. ‘When Allah whispers the command that cannot be ignored, all men must answer.’

‘I do not believe this was Allah’s doing.’ Yusuf looked to Selim. ‘Tell me true, Brother. How did our lord die?’

‘We cannot be certain.’

‘Was it poison?’ Yusuf demanded. Selim looked away. That was all the confirmation that Yusuf needed. His fists clenched. ‘Which of you did this?’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Who killed him?’ No one spoke. Yusuf went to Imad ad-Din. ‘Was it you?’ The scribe shook his head. Yusuf moved on to Al-Mashtub. ‘You?’

‘No, Malik.’

‘You, Qaraqush?’ The grizzled mamluk shook his head. Yusuf came back to Selim. ‘You urged me again and again to fight. Was it you, Brother?’

‘I did not kill him.’

‘I think you lie. We are all sons of Allah!’ Yusuf roared. ‘We do not murder one another!’

Selim straightened and met his brother’s gaze. ‘You know me better than that, Brother. I, too, am a man of honour.’

Yusuf’s anger ebbed from him as quickly as it had come. His fists unclenched, leaving red marks where his nails had dug into his palms. He took a deep breath, and when he continued his voice was calm and all the more frightening for it. ‘I believe you, Selim. But know this, all of you. When I find who killed our lord, they will hang. I swear it.’