Kingdom

Chapter 18

FEBRUARY 1175: KERAK

The mud sucked at John’s boots as he led his horse on to the narrow spur of land that sloped up to the citadel of Kerak. It was a miserable winter’s day, the low grey clouds spitting rain. John crossed the bridge over the gap in the spur and walked past a row of decapitated heads impaled on spears. The two guards at the gate were hunkered down under their cloaks. They hardly spared him a glance.

‘I am come to see Lord Reynald,’ John said.

‘In the keep.’

John left his horse with a stable boy in the lower court. He took the ramp to the upper court, where rain was pooling in broad puddles. There was no one about. Firelight glowed invitingly in the windows of the keep. John skirted the puddles and climbed the steps to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it, and a moment later it opened.

A heavy-set guard in mail stood in the doorway. ‘If you’ve come to beg, then you’d best leave before I run my sword up your backside.’

John held up his cross. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I have come on the King’s business. I must speak with your lord.’

The guard examined him for a moment before waving him inside into a draughty entrance hall. Another guard — an adolescent in loose, ill-fitting mail — stood beside the door.

‘I will inform Lord Reynald of your arrival,’ the heavy-set guard said. ‘You have a name, priest?’

‘John of Tatewic.’

The guard grunted. ‘An Englishman.’ He left, his footsteps echoing in the tall stone chamber.

John removed his dripping cloak. Beneath, he wore his chasuble and stole over a coat of mail. A mace was belted to his waist. He handed the cloak to the young guard. ‘Find a fireplace and hang this up to dry.’

The boy hesitated and then nodded and started to leave. He met the other guard in the doorway.

‘Where are you going?’ the heavy-set guard demanded.

‘H-he told me to hang his cloak.’

The guard cuffed the boy on the side of the head. He took the cloak and tossed it on the floor. ‘Get back to your post, porridge brains. Priest, you come with me. Leave your mace with the boy.’

John followed the guard up a stairwell and down a chilly hallway lined with loopholes. The guard stopped before a set of double doors. He knocked and pushed them open. John stepped into a thickly carpeted room, kept warm by a fire burning in the hearth beside the door. Reynald sat alone at table, bent over a roasted leg of lamb. He carved off a piece and speared it with his fork. Only then did he look up.

‘Saxon.’ He gestured to one of the seats at the table. ‘Sit.’

John did so. The guard stood uncomfortably close behind him.

‘What is your business, Saxon?’ Reynald demanded. ‘I presume you have not come for the pleasure of my company.’

‘Raymond sent me. You have been raiding the caravans that travel from Damascus to Cairo. It is a violation of our treaty with Egypt and Damascus.’

‘I couldn’t give a piss for your precious treaty.’

‘Raymond does not share your feelings. We are in no position to go to war with Egypt.’

‘Raymond is a coward.’

‘He has been elected regent. If you wish to keep your lands, you will do as he says.’

Reynald bristled. ‘I have these lands by the King! I earned them!’

‘By murdering the merchant Jalal?’

Reynald frowned and made a show of turning back to his lamb. ‘I know nothing of what you speak.’

‘I recognize your handiwork, Reynald; the heads on spears.’

‘So what if it was me? One less Mohammedan to worry about.’

‘Jalal was a Syrian Christian. And a dealer in poison. One of his poisons was used to kill King Amalric.’

Reynald’s eyes widened and he dropped his knife and fork. He seemed genuinely surprised.

‘You had cause to hate Amalric,’ John pointed out. ‘He failed to ransom you, and he gave your kingdom to Bohemond.’

‘What are you suggesting, Saxon?’

‘I think you poisoned Amalric. You learned I was investigating his death, and you killed Jalal to cover your tracks.’

Reynald burst out laughing. ‘That is ridiculous!’

‘Someone poisoned him, Reynald. If not you, then who?’

Reynald was suddenly angry. He grabbed his carving knife and pointed it at John. ‘I could have you killed for such an accusation. I am a man of honour! Amalric was my king.’

John met Reynald’s eyes without blinking. ‘And you killed the one man who knew who murdered him.’ Reynald was still holding the knife, but John decided to push him further. ‘In Baldwin’s eyes, that makes you look guilty,’ he lied. In truth, Baldwin knew nothing of John’s inquiry. ‘The King wants to see you beheaded.’

Reynald lowered the knife. ‘I knew nothing about any poison,’ he muttered. ‘I was only doing Heraclius a favour.’

‘Heraclius?’

‘He asked me to raid the caravan. Told me it was carrying spice from the East, that I could sell it for a fortune. He did not say anything about poison.’

John’s forehead creased. ‘But Heraclius does not have the authority to grant you Kerak. Who did?’

‘Baldwin.’

‘Why? The King has no love for you.’

Reynald shrugged. ‘Perhaps because I am a man of action, unlike Raymond.’

John’s mind was racing. Reynald had killed Jalal at Heraclius’s bidding. Baldwin had then made Reynald lord of Kerak and Oultrejourdain. Why? What was the link between Heraclius and Baldwin?

‘If you are finished, Saxon,’ Reynald said, ‘then you can go. Oudin, here, will show you out.’

John spent the night at an inn in the town of Kerak. He was surprised to find that the townspeople were pleased with their new lord. The town was thriving. Merchants bought the goods that Reynald stole in his raids on the caravans, and then sold them for a profit. The people felt more secure, too. Reynald meted out strict justice, hanging thieves and personally beheading any Saracens who came too close.

Early the next morning he left for Jerusalem. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still muddy. It would be slow going, so he decided to take the shorter route home; through Saracen lands along the eastern side of the Dead Sea. He doubted that he would run into any trouble. Few travelled in the winter rainy season; the roads were poor and the ravines subject to deadly floods. John saw no one as he rode north along the hilly shore of the sea.

He spent that first night beside a stream that fed into the Dead Sea. He made camp away from the road, well upstream in order to avoid being surprised by other travellers. The wood he found was wet, and he was unable to start a fire. He spent a restless night shivering as he huddled against the side of his horse. The next morning he awoke bleary-eyed and stiff. All his old injuries ached: his left shoulder, which had dislocated on the rack; his right shoulder, where he had taken an arrow; his side, where he still bore a long scar from a sword thrust that should have killed him. He managed to start a fire, but the rain returned and extinguished it. Cursing, he climbed into the saddle and continued north, huddled under his cloak.

The rain drowned out all sound and limited visibility, which was why John did not notice the men on horseback until they were almost upon him. There were three of them, dressed in the loose caftans of Saracens, their keffiyehs drawn down over their faces. When John first saw them, they were only one hundred yards behind him. He accelerated to a trot, but the men kept pace. John spurred his horse to a canter, but glancing over his shoulder he saw that the men were gaining ground. There could be no doubt. They were pursuing him.

John cursed his stupidity. He preferred to travel alone rather than with the Frankish sergeants with whom he had so little in common, but he could have used an escort now. ‘Yalla!’ he shouted and flicked the reins, urging his horse to a gallop. It kicked up mud as he turned into a ravine that twisted into the hills bordering the Dead Sea. The winding trail prevented him from seeing his pursuers, but he could hear their hoofbeats coming steadily closer.

The ravine turned sharply and widened into a shallow wash. In the centre was a stream bordered with tall brush. John slid from the saddle and guided his horse into the cold water. He walked north a dozen paces in order to hide his tracks and then left the steam and led his horse up a game trail that wound through thick brush. He tied his horse off amongst the bushes, out of sight.

John crept back to near the stream, which was now noticeably wider. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and as he peered through the leafy branches of a bush, he could just make out his pursuers. They had reined in beside the stream a dozen yards away and were searching for some sign of him. Finally they drew their swords, and one crossed to John’s side of the river and began to ride along the bank. The other two searched for tracks in the mud on the far side.

John stepped back into the brush as the rider on his side of the stream approached. The man passed by and then stopped. ‘Here!’ he called in French. ‘Tracks!’ These were no Saracens. John cursed silently as the man rode up the game trail that he had taken earlier. The other men crossed the stream and followed him. John waited a moment and then took his mace from his belt and headed up the trail after them.

The lead rider had stopped beside John’s horse. ‘Where did the Saxon bastard go?’ he growled.

John crept up behind the rearmost rider and grabbed him. The man shouted as he was dragged from his saddle. His scream was cut short when John smashed his face in with his mace. He transferred the mace to his left hand and took the dead man’s sword in his right.

The other riders had turned on hearing the cries of their fallen comrade. ‘Kill the bastard!’ the nearer man shouted.

John used the blade of his sword to slap the flank of the fallen rider’s horse. The beast reared up, blocking the two riders’ path, and John took the opportunity to run in the opposite direction. After ten feet he stopped in ankle-deep water. The stream was rising fast, flooding the wash. If John did not get to higher ground soon, he would drown. He stepped from the trail and waited, crouching behind a bush. The first man trotted past. As the second came by, John swung his sword, catching the man in the gut. The suit of mail that the man wore beneath his caftan stopped the blow, but it still knocked him from the saddle. The man scrambled to his feet, sword in hand.

John charged. The man held his ground and swung for John’s head. John parried, and brought his sword slicing down towards the man’s knees. The man managed to block the blow, but his sword was down, leaving him exposed. John swung for his face with his mace. The man lurched backwards, but John caught him in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He fell without a sound.

The hairs on the back of John’s neck rose, and he ducked instinctively, just before the third rider’s sword flashed over his head. John did not wait for the man to attack again. He sprinted for the brush located alongside the trail. Brambles and thorns tore at his clothes and scratched his face, but he pressed on. The brush was too thick for his foe to follow on horseback. Behind him, John could hear the man roaring with anger. ‘Damn you! Come back here and fight, Saxon!’

John stopped. Of course: they were Reynald’s men. The lord of Kerak must have decided that John knew too much. John could hear the sound of someone crashing through the brush behind him. He moved on until he came to a small clearing, half of which was already covered in ankle-deep water. John turned and waited. His pursuer stopped when he saw him. The man held a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.

‘You are Reynald’s man, aren’t you?’ John demanded.

In response the man reached up with his sword hand and unwrapped his keffiyeh. It was Oudin, the guard from Kerak. His lip curled back in a snarl and he charged, swinging backhanded for John’s head. John blocked with his sword and countered with his mace. Oudin took the blow on his shield and thrust for John’s gut. John managed to twist out of the way of the blade, but Oudin brought up his shield, smashing John in the face. John tasted blood from a split lip. He stumbled backwards and slipped, landing on his back in the mud. He saw a sword arcing towards his face and parried before kicking out, catching Oudin in the side of the knee. John felt his enemy’s leg give way. Oudin fell on his hands and knees.

John rolled towards him and swung his mace for the back of Oudin’s head. The Frank pushed himself up to his knees at the last moment, and the mace sank into the mud. Oudin chopped down on John’s arm. John felt a flash of blinding pain and dropped the mace. Oudin’s sword had cut through the mail over John’s forearm, leaving a deep gash.

Oudin raised his sword again, but John struck first, driving his blade into his enemy’s right shoulder. Oudin dropped his sword. With a roar, he swung his shield, hitting John in the side of the head. Everything went black for a moment. When John came to, he was lying on his back with Oudin kneeling on his chest. The water had risen so that it almost covered John’s face. Oudin had cast his shield aside and was groping in the rising water for his sword. John grabbed his enemy’s caftan. He pulled Oudin down and head-butted him, feeling a satisfying crunch as Oudin’s nose broke. He then brought his knee up into his enemy’s groin. Oudin grunted in pain, and John shoved him off his chest. He searched in the mud for his mace, but before he could find it Oudin slammed into him from the side. The two men grappled in the muddy water, each struggling to get a hold of the other. Oudin’s hands found John’s throat and began to squeeze. John choked, unable to breath. He managed to grab Oudin’s head with both hands and dug his thumbs into the man’s eyes. Still Oudin refused to let go of John’s throat. John shoved his thumbs deeper. He could feel hot blood running from Oudin’s eyes. The Frank pulled away, screaming.

Oudin tried to scramble away, but John crawled after him and seized his leg. He moved on top of Oudin and grabbed his hair, forcing the Frank’s face down into the muddy water. Oudin thrashed wildly, but John kept his face pressed into the muck. Finally the Frank went still.

John sat back. ‘That’s one more reason for me to kill you, Reynald,’ he muttered. And then pain flooded through him. His lip was split and his throat had been bruised so that it hurt to breathe. His right arm was bleeding heavily. He groped in the mud until he found a sword, and used it to cut a strip of fabric from Oudin’s caftan. He tied the cloth tightly around his arm to slow the bleeding. Then he pushed himself to his feet. The water was up to his calves now. He almost fainted, but recovered and headed into the brush, slipping and stumbling on the slick, muddy ground. God was with him, and he managed to find his horse. He dragged himself into the saddle and urged the animal further along the game trail. Having managed to ride out of danger, he finally stopped to look back. The stream had become a raging torrent, expanding rapidly to fill the ravine. John saw the horse of one of his attackers flash by, swept away in the current. He watched until past noon, when the rain stopped and the waters subsided. Then he rode for Jerusalem.

FEBRUARY 1175: JERUSALEM

‘Father? Father!’

John jerked awake and nearly fell from the saddle. He blinked against bright sunlight. His horse was standing before Jerusalem’s eastern gate. He had ridden day and night without stopping, afraid that if he dismounted he would pass out and never rise again. He must have ridden the last few miles unconscious, slumped in the saddle.

One of the gate’s guards was holding the reins of his horse. ‘Are you well, Father?’ he asked, staring at John wide-eyed.

John looked down at himself. He was caked in dried mud from head to toe. He knew his face was bloody and his lip split and horribly swollen. There was an ugly gash on his right forearm, and the mail around it was crusted with blood. When he had tied the cloth around his arm to stop the bleeding he must have tied it too tight, for his right hand was tinged blue. He looked like he had been dragged to hell and back, but there would be time to bathe and dress his wounds when he had finished with Heraclius.

‘I am well enough,’ he told the guard. He took back the reins and urged his horse through the gate. He rode straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and entered through the eastern portal. He almost collapsed when he dismounted, but caught himself on his saddle. An acolyte approached with mouth agape. John handed him the reins and stumbled through the cloisters to the refectory, where several canons were eating breakfast. Silence descended as all eyes turned to John. He passed through without stopping and stepped out into a courtyard, which he crossed to the door of what used to be the royal palace and now housed the archdeacon’s residence. Two knights of the Holy Sepulchre framed the door.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ the guard on the right demanded as he barred John’s way. ‘Get back to the streets, you rabble.’

John showed him his cross. ‘I am John of Tatewic, a canon of the church. I have come to see the Archdeacon.’

‘The Archdeacon is not receiving.’

John gave the man a withering look. He reached for the mace at his belt, only to find it was not there. ‘I have ridden far and I am in no mood to argue. I must see the Archdeacon.’

The guard bristled. ‘I said, he is not receiving.’

John’s hands balled into fists. The other guard put a hand on his companion’s shoulder. ‘I will deal with this one, Gersant. Follow me, Father.’

The guard led John inside and upstairs to the archdeacon’s private apartments. He knocked, but before there was a response John pushed the door open and stormed inside. A blond man with heavy jowls and red cheeks sat dining at a small table beside the window. He looked at John in surprise, then alarm.

‘What is this?’ John demanded. ‘Where is the Archdeacon?’

The fat man blinked. ‘I am the Archdeacon.’

‘Where is Heraclius?’

‘He has been made Archbishop of Caesarea.’

John frowned. Heraclius an archbishop? So he, too, had been rewarded for his role in Amalric’s death. John turned and stumbled from the room. He crossed the street and entered the hospital without a word to the guards at the door. The doctors looked at him with dismay. John strode to a table holding various medicines.

‘Wait!’ one of the doctors called. He was a beardless young man in a monk’s cowl. ‘You cannot-’

John glared at the doctor, and the monk backed away. John removed his filthy cloak and alb, and struggled out of his mail, pulling it off over his head. The flesh around the gash on his arm was angry and red. He took a bottle of pure alcohol from the table and poured some over the wound. He gritted his teeth at the stinging pain.

He looked to the doctor who had tried to stop him. ‘Can you stitch this wound closed?’

‘I can, but I think it best if-’

‘Do it.’

The doctor hesitated for a moment and then retrieved a needle and thread. John stood with jaw clenched while the man stitched. ‘Thank you.’ John took a jar of sulphur paste from the table and smeared it over the wound. ‘Now bandage it.’

‘Yes, Father.’

The doctor was just finishing when William entered. ‘John! What has happened to you? The Archdeacon told me you barged into his quarters looking like death itself. I see he was not exaggerating.’

‘Reynald’s men ambushed me during my return from Kerak.’

‘You are certain it was his men?’

John nodded.

‘Leave us,’ William told the doctor. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. ‘So Reynald killed Amalric?’

‘No. They used him. Heraclius was involved, too. He poisoned the King, or he will know who did. I am going to Caesarea to speak with him.’

‘I do not think that wise, John.’

‘They must pay for what they have done, William. It is not just Amalric that I wish to avenge. The bastards tried to kill me.’

‘Exactly. Our enemies are alert to you. You must be cautious.’

‘So we do nothing?’

‘We wait. Heraclius will come to Jerusalem eventually. We will deal with him then. In the meantime there is much to occupy us. Saladin has brought Syria and Egypt together. If the Saracens are united, the Kingdom cannot stand.’

‘I do not believe Saladin means to make war with us. He wants peace.’

‘Perhaps. But what happens when Saladin is gone? Our only hope for lasting peace is strength, John. We must drive the Saracens apart, convince Aleppo to turn against Saladin. Then we can face him from a position of strength.’

John frowned. ‘We would do better to hope the peace with Saladin holds. The regent of Aleppo, Gumushtagin, is not a man to be trusted.’

‘Raymond believes we have no choice, and I agree. I am leaving for Aleppo in order to negotiate. You will remain here to advise Raymond.’ William placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘I know Saladin is your friend, John, but if we want peace then we must restore the balance of power. We must make war against Saladin.’