Kingdom

Chapter 16

JULY 1174: JERUSALEM

John knelt in prayer on the stone floor of the crowded antechamber to Amalric’s apartments. He looked up as a low moan of pain emanated from the king’s bedroom. Three weeks ago Amalric had grown ill. His symptoms had steadily worsened, diarrhoea giving way to vomiting and then delirium. Just now, William had been called in to administer the last rites. John could hear Baldwin weeping from the corner where the young prince prayed. He was not the only one with tears in his eyes. It was not just that the king was dying; his illness could not have come at a worse time for the Kingdom.

Nur ad-Din’s death had presented an unprecedented opportunity for the Franks. Aleppo and Damascus were too weak to hold out on their own against Saladin or Nur ad-Din’s nephew, Saif ad-Din, who ruled from Mosul. As recently as last month, Amalric had led an army to Damascus, forcing Emir Al-Muqaddam to form an alliance with Jerusalem. John looked across the room to where Raymond of Tripoli knelt near Reynald de Chatillon. The two men had been freed as part of the deal. Aleppo had also sent envoys to forge an alliance. When it was completed, the Kingdom would finally be secure. But now Amalric was dying, and the alliances would die with him.

John was about to return to his prayers when the bedroom door opened. William emerged and came to kneel beside him. ‘How is he?’ John whispered.

‘Amalric is far gone. I do not believe he understood me.’

John bowed his head and resumed his silent prayers. He looked up as the door opened again, and the king’s doctor stepped out. Deodatus was a hollow-cheeked man in monk’s robes. John had experienced his notion of medicine years ago, when recovering from torture at the hands of Heraclius. John thought Deodatus a fool, but the king trusted him. Deodatus gestured for William to approach. John came, too.

The doctor spoke in an agitated whisper. ‘I tried everything I could. I used buckthorn to help purge him of his foul humours. I used up my supply of blackberry syrup, normally an infallible remedy for the flux.’ The monk shook his head. ‘Nothing availed.’

William looked as if he had been punched in the gut. ‘Do you mean-?’

Deodatus nodded and led them into the king’s bedchamber, closing the door behind them. Amalric lay pale and unmoving, his eyes staring sightless towards the ceiling. Strands of his hair had fallen out and lay scattered on his pillow. William went to the king and closed his eyes, then removed the royal signet ring. John noticed Amalric’s fingernails. He looked to Deodatus. ‘Why are his nails yellow? You are certain he died of the flux?’

The monk looked down his nose at John. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business! It was the flux. He had all the usual symptoms: vomiting, bloody discharge, fever, confusion.’

John was not so sure. He thought back to his last discussion with Agnes. She had hinted that Amalric would die soon.

‘Thank you, Deodatus,’ William said. ‘I am sure you did everything in your power. Please prepare him to be viewed. His family and retainers will want to see him.’

Deodatus nodded. ‘Give me some time with him.’

John followed William out of the room. All eyes turned towards them. William opened his mouth to speak, but John pulled him aside. ‘I am not so sure he was not murdered,’ John whispered. ‘The lady Agnes-’

‘It does not matter how he died, John,’ William said in a tired voice. ‘He is gone now. We are a kingdom without a king. God help us.’

John gestured to the prince. ‘What of Baldwin?’

‘He is only thirteen. He will not come of age for three years. Until then, a regent shall govern in his stead.’

‘Who?’

‘The seneschal Miles de Plancy will take over the government until the Haute Cour decides upon a permanent regent.’ William took a deep breath and turned from John to the room of kneeling priests and nobles. He raised his voice and called out: ‘The King is dead!’

Shock registered on the faces of the men in the room. The news sank in for a moment. Then they murmured more or less in unison, ‘Long live the King!’

‘What do you think of our new king?’ the fat-cheeked priest sitting in the next stall of the choir whispered to John. He nodded in the direction of Baldwin, who sat on a gilt throne at the centre of the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For his coronation, Baldwin’s face had been covered with creamy white lard to hide the ugly red splotches, and he was dressed in the royal robe of red silk, decorated with gold thread. The seneschal Miles knelt before the king, holding his sceptre. Beside him was the dour chamberlain Gerard de Pugi, who held the king’s sword, a mighty blade with a lengthy hilt, the pommel decorated with gems. Beyond them, a crowd of leading nobles and rich merchants sweated in the summer heat.

‘You have spent time with him,’ the priest continued. His name was Benedict, and John recalled that he was a fourth or fifth son from a noble family in France. ‘Will he be able to rule?’

‘And why would he not be?’ John whispered back.

‘The boy has leprosy, God help him.’

John smiled wryly. Baldwin hated nothing more than when people underestimated him because of his illness. ‘He will be a capable king,’ he responded.

‘That is good,’ Benedict murmured. ‘I hear the mother is already meddling.’ He looked towards Agnes, who stood in the front ranks of the crowd beyond the colonnade. ‘Rumour has it that she is a woman who does not know her place, that she seeks to rule through her son. And her daughter is said to take after her; she is a headstrong, wilful child. She is beautiful though, eh?’ Only fourteen, Baldwin’s older sister Sibylla was fine-boned and had long auburn hair and large blue eyes. John noticed several lords in the audience casting longing glances in her direction. It was not just because of her beauty. Baldwin’s leprosy had rendered him incapable of producing an heir. The future of the line lay with Sibylla. Now that she had left the convent of Saint Lazarus in Bethany, she was the most eligible woman in the Holy Land.

Benedict leaned close and winked. ‘I prefer the mother, though. Exquisite.’

John was saved from having to reply by Stephen, the dean of the canons, who glared at Benedict and hissed for him to be quiet.

The introductory portion of the ceremony was concluding. Baldwin rose from his throne and knelt before the patriarch, who prayed quietly as he anointed the king-to-be with holy oil. When he had finished Baldwin stood, and the patriarch raised his voice so that the crowd could hear him. ‘Baldwin, son of Amalric, sixth King of Jerusalem, may God grant you the wisdom to rule justly!’ The patriarch nodded to the chamberlain, who took the sceptre from Miles and placed it in the king’s right hand.

‘May God grant you the strength to defend the kingdom he has given you!’ the patriarch continued, and the chamberlain took the king’s sword and belted it around Baldwin’s waist.

‘May God grant you the faith to rule in his name!’ the patriarch concluded. Heraclius stepped forward holding the signet ring and a silver orb topped with a jewelled cross. The chamberlain slipped the ring on to Baldwin’s finger and placed the orb in his left hand.

Baldwin sat while the patriarch retrieved the crown from the altar and passed it to the chamberlain, who stood behind the throne and held the crown over Baldwin’s head. ‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ the patriarch declared. ‘I pronounce you Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem.’

The chamberlain lowered the crown on to Baldwin’s brow, and the audience knelt. Gerard raised his voice: ‘Long live the King!’

‘Long live the King!’ the crowd answered, their voices echoing off the marble-clad walls. Before the echoes had faded, some in the crowd were already leaving for the coronation feast. John had to stay for another half-hour while the patriarch prayed over the king and delivered a brief sermon exhorting Baldwin to rule according to God’s will and to fight the infidel Saracens. Finally the ceremony ended and John was able to return to his quarters and remove his suffocating priestly garb. He changed his clothes and then headed to the feast. He had not seen Agnes since Amalric’s death. This was his chance.

The celebration was being held at a luxurious home, built by a rich Jewish merchant before the city fell to the Christians. It was now owned by a Syrian. Two storeys tall, it was built around a series of courtyards that took up most of a city block. John was shown into the great hall. Three long tables ran its length, the king’s table, set at the far end, perpendicular to them. Baldwin sat at the centre of the table with Agnes and Sibylla to his right, alongside the patriarch, and the heads of the Templars and Hospitallers. The officers of the realm sat to his left, joined by Raymond of Tripoli and Bohemond of Antioch.

John skirted the perimeter of the hall and took up a position in a side passage not far from the king’s table. He waited until he caught Agnes’s eye and then nodded to her and stepped into the passage. She arrived a moment later.

‘Now is not the time, John,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

‘You killed Amalric.’

Agnes flinched. ‘How could you think that of me, John?’ There was hurt in her eyes.

‘Do not lie. You told me you were in the city to see Baldwin made king. Not four months later, Amalric lies dead.’

‘I have not been in the same room with Amalric since he annulled our marriage eleven years ago. How could I have killed him?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I shall miss him. He tried so hard to be a good king.’

John was confused. This was not what he had expected. ‘Do not pretend to mourn him.’

‘But I do mourn him. I loved him, John.’

‘Like you loved your other husbands. William told me what happened to them.’

Agnes’s mouth set in a thin line. ‘Whatever William might think, I did not kill them,’ she said coldly. ‘And I did not kill Amalric. I was angry with him, John. But that does not make me a murderer.’ She met his gaze unflinchingly. Was she telling the truth?

John lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘But Amalric was poisoned. I am sure of it.’

Agnes reached out to gently touch his cheek. ‘We are all of us upset, John. Do not go chasing after shadows. Amalric was only a man. The flux does not take rank into account.’

‘I saw his body, Agnes. Men do not lose their hair because of the flux. I owe Amalric my life. I could not save his, but I will avenge his death.’

Agnes took his head in her hands and kissed him. ‘God help you, John.’

OCTOBER 1174: JERUSALEM

John pulled his heavy cloak tightly about him to ward off the autumn chill as he dodged the puddles forming in the Street of Herbs. Vaulted stonework covered the narrow market passage and kept out most of the rain, but the vertical slits at the base of the roof that allowed light to penetrate also admitted steady streams of water, which pooled on the cobbles below. Many of the shops were closed. John prayed silently that the one he was looking for was not one of them.

After three months of fruitless investigations, John was beginning to think that the doctor Deodatus might have spoken true when he said the king died of the flux. First of all, John could not imagine how the poison had been administered. Everything that the king ate or drank had to pass two tests. First, it was put in a cup made from unicorn’s horn, which several cooks and Deodatus swore would render any poison harmless. John was dubious; when he had offered to have Deodatus drink poison from the cup, the doctor had refused. Still, he was not sure how the poison could have passed the second test: the king’s food was consumed by at least one of the dozen tasters in Amalric’s court.

Nor had he had any luck discovering who might have administered the poison. There were dozens of candidates: the cooks, Deodatus, even a councillor such as Humphrey. There were too many possibilities and too few clues. So John had finally decided to focus his efforts on the poison itself. If he could identify the type of poison and its seller, then perhaps that man could lead him to the poisoner. John was going to speak with one such dealer in the dark arts. A palace cook had told him of a Syrian merchant named Yaqub the Bald, who was rumoured to sell more than spices.

John had almost reached the end of the street when he found Yaqub’s stall. A bald man, perhaps a few years younger than John, sat amidst large earthenware pots filled with fragrant spices. The man had dark features, a prominent nose and fingertips stained reddish-orange from handling spices.

‘Yaqub?’ John asked.

The man nodded. His eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘What can I help you with, Father?’

‘I am preparing a special dish. I was told that you are the man to see.’

‘Perhaps,’ Yaqub said in a guarded tone. One of his hands moved beneath the counter. ‘What is it that you wish to prepare?’

John spoke in a low voice. ‘Murder.’

The man’s forehead creased. ‘Leave, now,’ he hissed and pulled a curved dagger from beneath the counter.

John did not move. ‘Tristan in the palace kitchens said you were the person to see for such things.’

Yaqub held the point of the dagger close to John’s chest. ‘Tristan is a fool. Go, now!’

John moved fast, grabbing Yaqub’s wrist beneath the dagger with one hand while seizing the man’s caftan and pulling him into the street with the other. The merchant in the next stall made no move to intervene. John pinned Yaqub down and leaned over him. ‘I do not have time for games. Talk.’

‘What are you doing?’ Yaqub cried, his eyes wild. ‘Help!’

John twisted the knife from Yaqub’s hand and held it close to the merchant’s face. Yaqub quieted immediately. John pulled him to his feet and hauled him down the street and into a side alley open to the sky. It was raining heavily, and soon they were both soaked. John slammed Yaqub’s back against the wall of the alley. ‘You will tell me what you know,’ he said to the merchant, ‘one way or another.’

‘W-what sort of priest are you?’

‘Who I am does not matter. Talk. You deal in poisons, yes?’

‘I am a spice merchant,’ Yaqub insisted.

John held the dagger near the man’s crotch and tapped it against the inside of his thigh. ‘Talk. I will not ask again.’

‘I–I sell certain herbs,’ Yaqub admitted. ‘To increase virility or to ensure love. Not to kill.’

‘That is not what Tristan says.’ John moved the blade closer to the man’s privates.

‘I swear to you!’ Yaqub whimpered. ‘Do not hurt me. I did sell such things once, but it was a bad business. A dangerous business.’

John looked into the man’s wide brown eyes. ‘I believe you,’ he said and released Yaqub. ‘A friend of mine died recently, and I suspect he was murdered. I am looking for a drug that would make it seem as if a man had died of the flux. Do you know of such a poison?’

‘Was his death sudden?’

‘He grew sick over several weeks.’

‘And did you notice your friend’s fingernails after he died?’

‘They were tinged yellow.’

‘Al-Zarnikh,’ Yaqub said. ‘A most deadly poison. Odourless, undetectable. It takes many doses to kill, so tasters are useless.’

‘Who sells it?’

‘I know of one man, a Syrian merchant, Jalal al-Dimashqi.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He comes to Jerusalem every other month with a caravan from Damascus. He should be here next week.’

John frowned. He wanted answers today.

Yaqub took John’s creased forehead as a sign of anger. ‘I promise, I speak the truth! I can tell you where to find him. He stays in the Syrian quarter and worships at the Church of Saint Anne. If you ask for him there, someone will show you the way.’

‘Thank you.’ John held out Yaqub’s dagger, handle first. The spice merchant hesitated. Finally he took it. John started to walk away, but turned. ‘If you warn this Jalal al-Dimashqi that I am coming for him, it will not go well for you.’

‘I will not,’ Yaqub promised. ‘I bear him no love.’

‘Good day, then, Yaqub, and may God grant you fortune.’

John shook water from his cloak as he stepped into the palace. He was late for the meeting of the Haute Cour. Baldwin had been king for three months, and the court had finally assembled to select a permanent regent. The guards at the door to the council chamber nodded in greeting and opened the door just enough to allow John to slip inside. He could not vote, but he was allowed to be present as an adviser to the king. The throne at the far end of the hall was empty. Some forty nobles were gathered before it, some whispering quietly, others in animated discussion. Barons from all over the kingdom had come, and they had separated themselves into two distinct groups. On the left side of the hall stood Agnes’s faction, which was expected to support the acting regent, Miles de Plancy. John found him arrogant and high-handed, and he was not alone in his opinion. Miles’s refusal to accept advice had alienated many of the leading barons, but Agnes had stuck with him. John guessed his lack of support made him pliable. Amongst Miles’s supporters, John noticed the archdeacon Heraclius speaking with Reynald de Chatillon. That was a match made in hell, if ever there was one. They were talking with a third man who John did not recognize.

The other candidate for the regency was Raymond of Tripoli, an intelligent, cultured man who shared John’s respect for the Saracens. He stood on the right side of the hall, surrounded by his supporters, including several of the most powerful barons: the constable Humphrey of Toron, Baldwin and Balian of Ibelin, and the young Walter of Brisebarre. John was surprised to also see Reginald of Sidon, Agnes’s husband, with them.

John slipped through the crowd to find William, who stood in the shadows of the right-hand wall. ‘Where have you been?’ the chancellor hissed.

‘Looking for answers to Amalric’s murder.’

John had told the priest of his suspicions and kept him apprised of his search. William did not disapprove, but nor was he enthusiastic about John’s inquiries. After all, if someone had killed the king, then it would be a small thing for him or her to kill John and William. ‘Well?’ William demanded. ‘Did you find anything?’

‘Maybe. What have I missed?’

‘Baldwin and the seneschal have not yet arrived. I suspect that Miles is delaying because he knows his time is up. Raymond has the support of the most powerful nobles, and he is young King Baldwin’s closest male relative. It will be a tight vote, but he should win. Ah, here is the King.’

The men knelt as Baldwin entered, flanked by Miles de Plancy and Agnes. Baldwin sat and motioned for his subjects to rise. Miles stepped forward to speak, his nasal voice filling the chamber. ‘Welcome, lords and friends. As you know, I assumed the burden of the regency upon the death of King Amalric, requiescat in pace. But my rule was ever only temporary, until the Haute Cour could be summoned to appoint a permanent regent. Today, we shall accomplish that task. Raymond of Tripoli has put forth his name for consideration. And if you feel that I have governed well these past three months, then I humbly ask that you consider confirming me as regent. Are there any other candidates?’

Miles paused to draw breath and then continued. ‘Very well, I-’

‘Wait!’ Agnes said. The seneschal looked to her in surprise. ‘I propose Amalric de Lusignan.’

There was shocked silence and then an uproar as the barons began to talk loudly amongst themselves about this new, unexpected candidate. John looked to William. ‘Who?’

‘That man there.’ William pointed across the hall to the young man who had been speaking with Heraclius and Reynald. He was tall and well built, clean-shaven in the French manner, and had shoulder-length brown hair. He would have been handsome but for a snub nose that gave him a slightly piggish appearance. ‘He has only recently arrived from France,’ William explained. ‘Apparently, Agnes has taken a liking to him.’

John scowled. Was that why she had refused to see him since Baldwin became king? He looked from Amalric de Lusignan to the seneschal Miles, who was standing pale and speechless beside the throne. ‘And apparently she has tired of Miles de Plancy.’

‘No doubt she did not believe he would be named regent,’ William noted. ‘He has outlived his usefulness.’

‘What of this Amalric? Can he win?’

William shrugged. ‘Not likely. But Agnes would not have put him forward if she did not think he had a chance. Look at the barons.’ The men were arguing animatedly in groups of three and four. ‘Men who were sure they would vote for Miles or Raymond are now being forced to decide anew. Most of Miles’s supporters will vote as Agnes wishes. Perhaps some of the other barons will switch their votes from Raymond to this Amalric.’ William nodded towards Miles, who had recovered his composure. ‘We shall see soon enough.’

‘Lords and friends,’ Miles began, his shaky voice just audible above the crowd of men. ‘Lords and friends!’ he repeated more loudly. The barons quieted. ‘In light of this unexpected candidacy, we all need time to consider our options. The King and I shall retire to allow you to reach a decision.’ The seneschal left the hall without waiting for a response. After a moment, Baldwin rose and followed him. Agnes remained behind and crossed the hall to speak with Amalric de Lusignan. He said something, and she laughed. She reached out and picked a piece of lint from his linen tunic. John looked away, disgusted.

‘What now?’ he asked William.

‘I must speak with Raymond.’

William joined Raymond in discussion with Reginald of Sidon. John remained in the shadows along the wall until he noticed Reynald standing alone. He crossed the room. ‘Reynald!’

‘Father,’ Reynald said in a voice so clipped it was almost a grunt.

‘What are you doing here?’ John demanded. ‘You swore an oath to return to France when you were released.’

‘Heraclius has absolved me of my oath.’

The archdeacon had overheard the conversation and now approached. ‘Oaths made to the infidel are meaningless,’ he said in his soft voice.

‘A man’s word is his word, regardless of who he gives it to,’ John countered.

Reynald snorted. ‘Who are you to speak to me of oaths, Saxon? Have you forgotten that you were my man once?’

‘Before you tried to have me killed.’

‘And who is this?’ Amalric de Lusignan asked as he stepped between John and Reynald.

‘John of Tatewic,’ Reynald said. ‘A Saxon.’

‘And a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ Heraclius added in a tone that made John’s title sound like an insult.

‘God grant you joy, Father,’ Amalric said. His vacant expression reminded John of a camel chewing its cud. What did Agnes see in him? ‘I am pleased to meet you.’

‘And I you,’ John said grudgingly. ‘You are a recent arrival in the Holy Land, my lord, so let me offer a piece of advice: choose your friends carefully, and your lovers more carefully still.’

John walked away before any of the men could respond. He went to where William stood talking with Raymond. Something was wrong. William was biting his lip and Raymond’s brow was knit.

‘Bad news,’ William told him. ‘The Haute Cour cannot conduct official business without the seneschal or the regent present. Miles is both, and one of Raymond’s men saw him leaving the palace at a gallop.’

‘The conniving bastard,’ Raymond grumbled.

The doors at the back of the hall opened, and all eyes turned. A thin young cleric stepped out and spoke in a trembling voice. ‘I–I’m afraid that the seneschal has been called away from Jerusalem on urgent business. The H-Haute Cour is adjourned until he returns.’ His last words were drowned out by a roar of disapproval from the barons. The cleric retreated quickly.

‘By the devil’s black beard,’ Raymond cursed. ‘I’ll gut the bastard!’

‘But Miles cannot simply leave,’ John said. ‘It cannot be legal.’

‘He is the regent and the seneschal,’ William said. ‘Who is to gainsay him?’

John looked to Raymond. ‘You can seize the regency. The barons would support you.’

‘They would,’ Raymond agreed. ‘But my regency would lack legitimacy. There would be nothing to stop the barons from removing me in turn, if they grew tired of my rule. There is only one thing to do. We must find Miles and drag him back to Jerusalem.’ Raymond studied John for a moment. ‘William tells me that you served King Amalric well, John. You speak Frankish, Latin and Arabic. Like me, you have spent time amongst the Saracens. You understand that they are men, not demons. And you were once a soldier?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I could use a man like you. You are a priest, so Miles and his men will be less likely to have you killed. Will you retrieve him for me?’

‘I have business in Jerusalem, my lord.’

Raymond frowned. ‘Surely it can wait.’

John thought of the Syrian poison dealer, Jalal al-Dimashqi. He would be in Jerusalem the following week. ‘If you are willing to wait a week before I set out, then I am your man.’

‘I have waited three months to be named regent. What is another week?’ Raymond gripped John’s shoulder. ‘You will have as many of my men as you need. Find that bastard for me, John, and bring him back here.’

A week later John walked the narrow streets of the Syrian quarter, winding his way towards the Church of Saint Anne. The quarter was filled with the low, resonant sound of nawaqis — wooden boards played with mallets — that the Syrians used to call their faithful to prayer. Jalal’s caravan had been due to arrive in Jerusalem that morning. If the poison dealer had come with it, then he would now be headed to church. John stopped for a moment outside Saint Anne’s. It was a Roman-style building with arched windows and a small dome at the junction of the nave and the transept. The men entering were all Syrian Christians, indistinguishable from the Saracens except by their faith.

When the flow of men had slowed to a trickle, John stepped inside. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Dozens of men were kneeling on the floor before him, while a priest prayed in Aramaic. John spied a young man near the door in the black robes of a Syriac priest.

‘Excuse me, Father, I am looking for Jalal al-Dimashqi. I understand he prays here?’

‘He did.’

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

The priest frowned. His head tilted as he examined John. ‘You are a friend?’

‘Yes,’ John lied.

‘Then I regret to inform you that Jalal is dead.’

John blinked in surprise. ‘What? How?’

‘His caravan was raided during the journey from Damascus. It was a terrible business. All but a few were killed. They were decapitated, and their heads impaled on stakes driven into the ground.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Jalal was so generous to the church. God rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’ John said and made the sign of the cross. ‘Thank you, Father.’

His mind was racing as he made his way back to the palace. It could not be a coincidence. Years ago, while travelling with Yusuf, John had come across a field of heads on stakes. It was the work of Reynald de Chatillon. Could Jalal’s death be his doing? John thought back to the feast in Aleppo, to when Reynald had complained bitterly about Amalric’s failure to ransom him. Had he killed the king? And if so, how could John prove it now that Jalal was dead?

John headed for the chancellery to discuss his new suspicions with William. He found the priest bent over a parchment. ‘What did this Jalal have to say?’ William asked without looking up.

‘Nothing. He is dead.’

‘Do you think-?’

‘Yes. I suspect he was murdered by Reynald. This bears his stamp.’ John explained about the caravan and the decapitated heads.

‘That is upsetting,’ William said when John had finished. ‘I have just had news from Acre. Miles de Plancy is dead, murdered by Walter of Brisebarre. It seems they quarrelled over the lordship of Oultrejourdain. Miles claimed it through his wife, but Walter felt the lands should have passed to him.’ William frowned. ‘After what you have told me, I now suspect there is more to his death.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Guess who has been named the new lord of Oultrejourdain.’

John felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Tell me it is not Reynald.’

‘It is. He left this afternoon for Kerak. He is to marry Miles’s widow, Stephanie, and to become lord of Montreal, Kerak, and the lands beyond the Jordan.’

‘A reward for killing Jalal?’

‘I suspect so. But who has the power to grant such a reward? It was surely not Baldwin’s idea, and I do not believe Raymond capable of such deviousness.’

‘Nor do I,’ John agreed.

‘Agnes, then.’

‘No. She swore to me she had nothing to do with Amalric’s death.’

‘There is only one way to find out for certain who is behind Reynald’s sudden rise in fortune.’

John nodded. ‘I must pay him a visit in Kerak.’