Kingdom

Chapter 1

OCTOBER 1163: JERUSALEM

John’s head jerked to the side as he was slapped. He blinked awake to the taste of blood in his mouth and looked about trying to orient himself, then groaned as the excruciating pain in his shoulders washed over him. He was still stretched out on the rack, his feet tied down at one end, his bound hands stretched too far above his head. He looked to the crank on his right. Its every turn stretched his hands and feet a little further apart. He must have fainted after the last turn. Past the crank he could see a small square window set high up in a stone wall. The light filtering through was dim. He was sure it had been day just a moment ago. How long had he been unconscious? As he watched, a hand grabbed and turned the crank. John howled as he felt his shoulders starting to dislocate. His vision dimmed and then someone slapped him again. His eyes blinked open to see Heraclius leaning over him.

The priest had an almost feminine beauty, with high cheekbones, a thin nose and full lips. His deep-set eyes — as blue as the turquoise waters of Acre Harbour on the day years ago when John had first arrived in the Holy Land — narrowed slightly as they studied his victim. The priest smiled, betraying a grim satisfaction at the suffering he had wrought. ‘Stay with me, Saxon,’ he purred in heavily accented Latin. Heraclius was a half-educated country priest from the wild Auvergne in France, and he had a peasant’s love of cruelty. He leaned forward to whisper in John’s ear. ‘Tell me, why did you fight for the Saracens? Why did you betray the Cross?’

‘I never betrayed the Faith,’ John growled through gritted teeth.

‘Liar!’ Heraclius hissed. ‘You killed your fellow Christians. You served the infidel, the forces of Satan.’ Heraclius placed his hand on the crank. John flinched. But the priest did not turn the crank; he made a show of studying it, running his finger lightly over its handle. ‘The rack is a dreadful thing. A few more turns and your arms will be pulled from their sockets. You will be crippled, unable to lift a sword ever again.’ He bent over so that his breath was hot on John’s face. Their eyes met. ‘You spent many years in Aleppo, Saxon. You know its fortifications, its weaknesses. Tell me: how can we take the city?’

‘I have told you. It will take a siege of many months. You will have to starve the people out.’

‘No! There must be a secret entrance, a weak point.’ John shook his head. ‘I see.’ Heraclius sighed and then straightened. When he spoke again it was in a louder voice, as if he were delivering a homily in church. ‘All that happens is part of God’s plan, Saxon, even your faithlessness. It was He who determined that the infidels would capture you; that you would betray Him by serving them. And it was God who delivered you into my hands. Do you know why? Because you have come to know our enemy, their cities, their people, their walls. You have been sent to us by God as the key to their destruction.’

‘You are wasting your time. I know no secrets.’

‘We shall see. Perhaps we simply need to find new ways to motivate you. Pepin! Bring the coals.’

John twisted his head to the side and saw a brawny, square-faced guard approaching, his hands wrapped in cloth. He carried a shallow bronze dish containing a layer of smouldering coals. He set the dish on the table beside the rack. Heraclius took a pair of pincers and selected a chestnut-sized coal. He held it just inches from John’s bare stomach and then moved it up past John’s chest towards his face. John tried to twist his head away, but Pepin grabbed hold of his ears, holding him still. Heraclius held the coal just above the bridge of John’s nose. The heat was intense — like the blast from an oven — and within moments John felt as if his forehead were on fire. An acrid smell filled the room as his eyebrows began to singe. Heraclius bent close so that his face was lit red by the glowing coal. ‘Tell me about your master, this Yusuf.’

John swallowed. ‘He is Emir of Tell Bashir. His father is the governor of Damascus and his uncle, Shirkuh, commands the armies of the Saracen king.’

‘And how did you come to be in his service?’

‘I came to the Holy Land with the Second Crusade. I was captured at Damascus and purchased by Yusuf as a slave. He was only a boy then.’

‘You saved his life at the battle of Butaiha. Why?’

John hesitated, his eyes fixed on the burning coal. ‘Yusuf is my friend.’

‘He is an infidel!’

John looked away from the coal and met Heraclius’s eyes. ‘He is the best man I have ever known.’

‘I see.’ Heraclius turned away and dropped the coal back into the dish. John exhaled. ‘Oh, I am not done with you,’ the priest said. ‘Not yet.’ He nodded to Pepin, who placed the coals on a shelf just beneath John’s feet. At first the warmth was almost pleasant, but then John’s feet grew uncomfortably hot, as if he had set them too long beside a fire. He twitched, trying to jerk himself away, but his arms were still stretched to breaking point, and the motion caused a spasm of pain in his left shoulder. He lay still and squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth grinding as he fought against the burning in his feet. He thought he could feel blisters starting to form on his heels. And then the heat was gone. Pepin had removed the dish of coals. A moment later Heraclius’s face reappeared above him.

‘What of Nur ad-Din, the Saracen king? You met him, yes?’ John nodded. ‘How is he protected? Could an assassin reach him?’

‘In camp he is surrounded by the mamluks of his private guard. In Aleppo he rarely leaves the citadel. No assassin could reach him alive.’

‘Do you swear it?’

John nodded. ‘By Christ’s blood.’

‘We shall see.’ Heraclius gestured to Pepin, who replaced the dish of coals.

The pain came more quickly this time. John’s entire body tensed and he began to squirm despite the pain in his shoulders. To keep from shouting, he bit his tongue so hard that it began to bleed. Heraclius watched impassively. John could smell burning flesh — his own. ‘I speak the truth!’ he shouted. ‘What do you want from me, you bastard? What do you want me to say?’

‘There, there. I believe you,’ Heraclius soothed. He frowned. ‘I was wrong. You are not the key to defeating the Saracens. Pepin, take the coals away.’

The heat vanished. Heraclius fetched a wet cloth, with which he gently dabbed John’s feet. The relief was so overwhelming that John almost fainted. ‘Thank God,’ he murmured.

‘Do not thank him yet,’ Heraclius said. ‘Your suffering has just begun.’

‘But you said you believe me!’

‘And I do.’ Heraclius set the wet cloth aside. He crossed the room and paused before a table covered with instruments of torture: thumbscrews, hooks for tearing flesh, metal claws known as Spanish ticklers, and other devices whose use John hoped he would never learn. The priest picked up one of these last objects, a pear-shaped metal contraption with a wing nut at the top. ‘Now that we have discovered what you know, I must see to your salvation. Your time amongst the infidels has stained your soul. We must wash it clean.’ As he began to turn the wing nut the pear expanded, four separate pieces of metal spreading out. ‘You must suffer for betraying the faith. It is the only way to find salvation.’ The priest nodded to Pepin. ‘Hold his mouth open. He shall pay the price for breaking his crusader’s oath.’

John clenched his mouth shut, but Pepin grabbed his lower jaw with one hand and pulled back on his nose with the other. The second John’s mouth opened, Heraclius shoved in the pear. It tasted of metal and blood. Heraclius gave the wing nut a twist and the pear expanded slightly, forcing John’s mouth to open wider. John gagged and coughed. He jerked his head side to side, trying to spit the pear out, but Pepin grabbed him by the ears and held him still.

Heraclius’s eyes betrayed an eager excitement as he watched John squirm. ‘The pear of anguish is an ingenious piece of work, especially useful for punishing blasphemers and oath breakers. First, your jaw will dislocate.’ Heraclius gave the wing nut another twist, forcing John’s jaws further apart so that they began to ache. ‘Then the skin of your mouth will tear, disfiguring you.’ He gave another twist. John’s jaw felt as if it were going to snap. His fingernails dug into his palms as he fought the pain. ‘If I expand the pear all the way, then you will never lie again: you will be unable to speak.’

Heraclius reached out to give the wing nut another turn, but stopped at the sound of booted feet approaching. A dozen soldiers in mail entered the torture chamber, a tonsured priest in black robes at their head. John recognized the priest; it was William of Tyre, who John had met long ago when he first came to the Holy Land.

‘Stop!’ William demanded. ‘Leave that man be!’

Heraclius turned. ‘The Patriarch turned the Saxon over to me. You have no authority here, William.’

‘I have the King’s backing and the King’s men. That man is a noble. If he is to suffer then he must first stand trial before his peers.’

‘The Saxon killed our men. He threw his lot in with the infidel Saracens. He must be made to suffer if he is to be redeemed!’ Heraclius reached again for the wing nut at the end of the pear.

‘Stop him!’

Two guards grabbed Heraclius’s arms and pulled him away. William went to the rack and pulled a lever, releasing the tension on the ropes that bound John’s hands and feet. The guards removed the pear and began to untie John’s bonds. He groaned in relief as he gingerly flexed his arms and legs, and then gasped as a stab of pain shot through his left shoulder. William helped him to sit up just in time for John to see Heraclius being dragged from the room by two soldiers. At the door Heraclius managed to shrug them off. He turned to face John and William.

‘This is not the end!’ Heraclius spat. ‘The Saxon betrayed his oath. I will see that he goes before the High Court. And mark my words, William: he will burn!’

John awoke to the sound of a door creaking. He blinked against the bright light streaming in from a window above his bed. Yesterday, after his feet had been bandaged, he had been carried to this tiny room in the compound of the Knights Hospitaller. Overcome with exhaustion and pain, he had passed out as soon as they laid him in his bed.

Now he stretched out and rolled over, away from the wall. The door to the room was open and a lean young man in monk’s brown robes stood in the corner. The monk was clean-shaven and tonsured, and had sunken cheeks, a weak chin and protruding eyes. He reminded John of a praying mantis. He was sniffing at the contents of the bronze chamber pot. ‘His black bile is weak,’ the monk murmured to himself.

‘Who are you?’ John sat up, wincing at the pain in his left shoulder.

The monk looked up from the chamber pot. ‘Ah, you are awake. Good. My name is Deodatus, and I am a doctor. Father William has sent me to tend to you.’ He approached and nodded towards John’s feet. ‘May I?’

John swung himself around so his feet hung off the bed. Deodatus began to unwrap the bandages. The soles of John’s feet were covered in angry, red blisters that oozed a sticky, clear fluid. Deodatus touched one of the blisters, and John winced in pain. ‘Your flesh is hot. Your humours are out of balance,’ the doctor said gravely. ‘I understand you were subjected to the rack?’

‘Yes. I cannot move my left arm without pain.’

The doctor grasped John’s left wrist with one hand and placed his other hand on John’s shoulder. As Deodatus lifted the arm, a stabbing pain shot through John’s shoulder, as if a white-hot iron had been plunged into the joint. ‘’Sblood!’ John cursed through clenched teeth.

Deodatus shook his head and then went to a small, leather-bound trunk. He took out a handful of dried roots, a mortar and a pestle. He murmured the Pater Noster as he ground the root to powder.

‘What is that?’ John asked.

‘Daffodil root for the burns on your feet. It will draw the heat out.’ The doctor finished grinding the root and went to the chamber pot, from which he scooped out some faeces. John’s eyes widened as the doctor placed the faeces in the mortar and mixed it in with the daffodil root. The doctor approached the bed with the foul-smelling mixture.

John drew back his feet. ‘Keep that away from me!’

‘The faeces will help to restore your black bile,’ Deodatus assured him.

John’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Do you have any aloe?’

The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Aloe?’

‘A plant. It helps to cure burns. The doctor Ibn Jumay says-’

‘A Jewish doctor?’ Deodatus huffed. ‘His medicine will send you to the grave.’

‘I’ll take my chances with Jewish medicine. Keep that shit away from my feet.’

‘Very well. But you are still too sanguine. I must bleed you to reduce your heat.’

‘No,’ John replied firmly. ‘You will not.’

Deodatus spread his hands. ‘If you will not accept my aid then I cannot be responsible for the consequences. At least allow me to treat your shoulder. I fear the damage will fester, drawing foul humours to it.’ Deodatus reached into his trunk and pulled out a short saw. He tested the blade with his thumb. ‘The arm must come off.’ Deodatus stepped over to the bed. He gripped John’s shoulder and brought the saw blade down towards the joint. ‘This will hurt.’

‘Yes, it will.’ John grabbed the doctor’s cowl, pulled him forward and head-butted him. Deodatus stumbled back, his eyes wide and his nose dripping blood.

‘You’re mad! You’ll die if I don’t take the arm.’

‘Then I’ll die. If you touch my arm again, you’ll join me.’

‘Damned fool,’ Deodatus muttered as he hurriedly closed up his trunk and tucked it under his arm. ‘God help you!’ On the way out he bumped into William.

William watched the doctor go and then turned to John, eyebrows raised. ‘What happened?’

‘The man is a quack. He doesn’t know the first thing about medicine.’

‘But that is the court physician!’

‘A quack,’ John repeated. William looked as if he would pursue the matter, but then shrugged. John met his gaze. ‘I owe you my thanks. Were it not for you, I would still be in that dungeon.’

‘I did not do it for you. You may be of some use to us. But first we must save you from the hangman’s noose. The High Court meets tomorrow to hear your case. I will defend you.’

‘Why? All that Heraclius says is true. I chose to fight for the Saracens.’

‘I do not share Heraclius’s belief that suffering is the only road to salvation. Whatever sins you have committed, you should be given the chance to redeem them in service of the Kingdom. But if I am to defend you, I must know the truth. How did you come to be in the service of the Saracens?’

John closed his eyes, his mind racing back to his first days in the Holy Land. ‘I came as a soldier with the Second Crusade. I was captured at the siege of Damascus and purchased by Najm ad-Din Ayub, now the wali — the governor — of Damascus. I served as a household slave and then as the personal servant of Ayub’s son, Yusuf. After I saved his life, he freed me.’

‘And why did you not return to your people?’

‘Return to what? The lord I had served, Reynald, betrayed me at Damascus. It was because of him that I was captured. And the Frankish soldiers I had fought beside were brutes. Yusuf was different. He was cultured and kind. He was my friend.’

‘So when you were captured at Butaiha, you were fighting for this Yusuf. He was your lord?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will argue that you merely did your duty as a liegeman.’

John’s forehead creased as he thought of the men who had died at his hands. ‘But I broke my crusader’s oath. I killed Franks, more than one. I deserve to die.’

‘We have all fallen short of the glory of God, John, but death will not wash away your sins. You can only redeem your soul through action.’

‘How?’ John demanded bitterly. ‘It is not only Franks that I killed.’ He paused, thinking back to his home in England, to the manor of his childhood. ‘I killed my brother.’

‘Surely you had a reason?’

‘He betrayed my father to the Normans in return for land. My father was hanged, along with a dozen other local thanes.’ John shook his head. The reasons seemed almost unreal now, so long had it been since John saw England. Yet the reality of his brother’s death was always fresh in his mind. ‘He was a bastard, but he was my brother. I killed him, and nothing I can do will bring him back. It will not bring any of them back.’

‘No, but you can save others. God has sent you to us for a reason. You have lived in both worlds, East and West. You have spent years at the court in Aleppo. You can speak to the Saracens as we cannot, understand them as we cannot. You can help to bridge the gap that divides us. That is your one true chance at salvation.’

‘And if I die? Will the fire not wash me clean, as Heraclius says?’

‘Look into your soul. Do you believe that suffering will save you?’

John thought back on his years in the Holy Land: the brutal march to Damascus; his capture and near death; the beatings he had suffered as a slave; his torture at the hands of Heraclius. None of it had washed away his guilt. He met William’s eyes. ‘Show me what I must do.’

‘First we must get you through this trial. You have but to answer truthfully any questions that are asked of you.’

‘What are my chances?’

‘God does not deal in chance. We must trust in Him. I will come for you tomorrow, when it is time.’ William turned to leave.

‘You did not answer my question, Father,’ John called after him. ‘What are my chances?’

William looked back and shook his head. ‘Not good. Heraclius has stacked the court against you. And the punishment for treason is death.’

The bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were ringing to call the canons to morning prayers as John hobbled after William into the audience chamber where the High Court was meeting. He was barefoot, and the thick rugs that carpeted the floor were a blessed relief to his blistered feet after the hard stone pavement of the courtyard. The members of the court waited on the far side of the room. King Amalric sat on a simple wooden throne, the dome of the church visible through the window behind him. He was young, perhaps John’s age, but whereas John was lean and fit, the king was heavy-set, pudgy even. He had a ruddy complexion, straight hair the colour of straw and a slightly darker beard. His piercing blue eyes met John’s across the hall, and the King laughed suddenly, a clipped laugh that sounded loud against the silence of the hall. With a start John realized that he had met him before. When he first arrived in the Holy Land, John had attended a meeting of the High Court, and Amalric — only a child at the time — had been there. John had never forgotten that peculiar boy with his clear blue eyes and strange laugh. Now Amalric was king.

Two men framed the throne, and Heraclius sat beside two others on one of the benches that ran along the side walls. A single man sat on the bench opposite them. ‘This is the High Court?’ John whispered to William. ‘The last time I attended there were hundreds of men.’

‘Only four are needed for a quorum.’ William gestured to John’s right, where a dour, bony man dressed in gold-embroidered robes sat beside Heraclius. ‘That is the Patriarch of Jerusalem. He is the one who turned you over to be tortured.’ Next to the patriarch was a dark-haired man with a thick beard and unruly eyebrows that met in the middle. Over his mail armour he wore a black surcoat bearing the Knights Hospitallers’ distinctive cross: four white arrowheads, all touching at the tips. ‘Gilbert d’Assailly is Grand Master of the Hospitallers. He is an Englishman like you, but don’t expect any mercy from that quarter. He hates the Saracens with a passion. I have more hope for that man there.’ William pointed to the opposite side of the hall where a man with steel-grey hair sat straight-backed, wearing a white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross. ‘Bertrand de Blanchefort is Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and he is a man of reason. As for the King, his constable Humphrey and the seneschal Guy’ — he waved to the two stern, middle-aged men flanking the throne — ‘I do not know where they stand.’

They stopped a dozen feet from the throne, and John and William both knelt. ‘Rise,’ Guy commanded in a harsh voice. Judging from his olive skin and slight build, John guessed he had Saracen blood in him. As seneschal, it was Guy’s duty to preside over the court. ‘Present yourselves.’

‘I am Iain of Tatewic, called John.’

‘Silence!’ the seneschal snapped. ‘You have been accused of oath breaking. You are not to speak before this court.’

John opened his mouth to reply, but William shot him a warning look. ‘I am William of Tyre. I will speak for the accused.’

‘Very well.’ The seneschal nodded towards Heraclius. ‘The accuser will present his case.’

Heraclius rose, bowed to King Amalric and then stepped to the centre of the hall. He cleared his throat. ‘This Saxon, John of Tatewic, has betrayed his crusader’s oath, betrayed his faith and betrayed the Kingdom. He served the Saracens of his own free will. By his own admission, he fought with them at Banyas and Butaiha, killing dozens of his fellow Christians. He has committed treason against the Kingdom and sacrilege against the Holy Church.’ He paused to look each judge in the eye. ‘For justice and for the salvation of his soul, he must die for his crimes.’ Heraclius bowed again and returned to his seat.

The seneschal looked to William. ‘What does the accused say to these charges?’

‘He pleads innocent to treason and sacrilege.’

The seneschal looked to Heraclius. ‘I understand you have a witness?’ Heraclius nodded. Guy raised his voice to address the armed men at the far end of the hall. ‘Guards! Bring the witness.’ A guard stepped out and returned a moment later with a short man in a loose-fitting burnoose. He had close-set eyes and a turned-up nose that gave him a piggish appearance. A gruesome gash ran along the left side of his face from his hairline to his jaw. The wound was recent, still angry and red, oozing blood near his temple. The man passed John and bowed before the throne. ‘Present yourself,’ the seneschal ordered him.

‘I am Harold, a sergeant and vassal of the King.’ Sergeants were Frankish warriors who, in return for title to their lands in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, served as foot-soldiers in the armies of their lord.

‘Do you swear by God that you will speak the truth?’ the seneschal asked.

‘Aye, I do.’

The seneschal nodded. ‘Heraclius, you may question the witness.’

Harold did not wait to be questioned. He pointed at John. ‘That whoreson killed my brother! And he did this to me.’ Harold touched the wound on his face.

‘Where was this?’ Heraclius asked.

‘Butaiha. We had routed the Saracens. My men were mopping up, taking captives for ransom, when he arrived on horseback like some demon out of hell. He rode into a company of over one hundred men to rescue a Saracen lord. They killed seven of us, and the two of them rode out again unscathed. I have never seen the like. He is a man possessed, a demon in human flesh.’

‘A man possessed,’ Heraclius repeated. ‘A demon who kills his own. Let us consign this demon to the fires from which he sprang!’

John noticed that the patriarch and Gilbert the Hospitaller were both nodding their heads in approval. King Amalric was listening carefully, but his expression remained neutral. William addressed the King. ‘John is no demon, sire. He is a warrior who fought in defence of himself and of the lord to whom he had sworn allegiance. His honour was at stake.’

Heraclius shook his head. ‘It was not honour that led him to kill his fellow Christians, but his depravity. What are the Saracens but the hand of Satan made manifest in this world? When the Saxon killed for his Saracen master, who was he killing for?’

‘He fought for his lord, nothing more,’ William insisted. ‘How many of you here have killed your fellow Christians in France or England? Gilbert and Bertrand, you have faced one another in battle. There was nothing heretical about that.’

‘Yes, but I was not under a crusader’s oath,’ Gilbert replied. ‘I had not sworn to fight only the Saracens and to aid my fellow Christians.’

‘John’s crusade was long over,’ William replied. ‘It ended at Damascus when our army was routed and he was captured fighting for Christ. Now, at long last he has returned to the fold. Let us welcome him back. He has suffered enough.’

‘He has not!’ Heraclius shouted. ‘His soul is at stake. Only fire can purify it!’

William’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Torturing this man further will only stain your black soul, Heraclius. It will not save John.’

There was a moment of silence, and then the constable Humphrey stood. He was barrel-chested and had a handsome, broad face. ‘This court is not fit to decide the fate of this man’s soul,’ he said, his voice low and rasping, like the sound of steel on a whetstone. ‘That is a matter for the Church. We are here because the safety of the Kingdom is at stake. I fear that if we let this Saxon live, more men will join the enemy. We all know of the Saracens’ wealth. If there are no consequences for betraying the Kingdom, what will stop them from buying the allegiance of our sergeants? We will find our own people turned against us.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Gilbert agreed.

‘But John did not join the Saracens of his free will,’ William pointed out. ‘He was captured and enslaved.’

Humphrey shook his head. ‘He still chose to fight for them.’

‘He chose to serve his lord, who was a Saracen. John is a man of honour: he could not do otherwise.’

‘I too am a man of honour,’ said the grey-haired Templar, Bertrand. ‘If this man fought in the service of the lord to whom he was bound, then I am inclined to be lenient.’ Bertrand turned to John. ‘Tell me truly, John: why did you fight our men?’

‘I owed my life to Yusuf. I fought to repay that debt.’

‘And if you had it to do again?’

‘I would do the same.’

Bertrand looked to Amalric. ‘I cannot fault him for that. If John will swear an oath to never again take up arms against the Kingdom, then I say we pardon him.’

‘An oath? I do not trust the word of this Saxon,’ the Hospitaller Gilbert protested.

John spoke quietly. ‘I am a man of my word.’

Gilbert snorted. ‘You have already betrayed us once. If we free you, how long will it be before you betray us again?’

‘I am no traitor! It was Reynald who betrayed me in Damascus and left me to die.’

‘Prince Reynald?’ the seneschal demanded. ‘The former ruler of Antioch?’

John nodded.

‘You see!’ Gilbert declared. ‘He besmirches the honour of a brave man in order to save himself. How can we trust this deceiver?’

John’s hands balled into fists. He took a step towards Gilbert.

‘Do you wish to strike me, Saxon?’ the Hospitaller sneered. ‘Come. You need to be taught a lesson.’

‘That is enough, Gilbert!’ Amalric’s voice was sharply authoritative. ‘I have heard enough.’ He looked to Heraclius. ‘Do you have anything to add?’ The priest shook his head. ‘William?’

‘I ask only for lenience. If John has done wrong, let him earn his forgiveness in service to the Kingdom.’

Amalric nodded to the seneschal Guy, who addressed them in a loud voice. ‘The accused can only be found guilty by a clear majority — four or more votes. If guilty, John shall suffer the fate of a traitor. He will be crucified and hung from the Jaffa Gate for one week. At the end of that time, his body shall be burned.’ The seneschal paused to allow his words to sink in. ‘Patriarch, what is your verdict?’

The patriarch stood stiffly. ‘Guilty.’

Gilbert rose next. ‘Guilty.’

‘And you, Bertrand?’ the seneschal asked.

‘Not guilty!’ the grand master of the Templars declared firmly.

The seneschal looked to Humphrey. ‘Guilty,’ the constable said gravely. John felt his mouth go dry. That was three guilty verdicts. He held his breath as the seneschal cleared his throat.

‘I pronounce him not guilty,’ Guy said. ‘King Amalric will cast the deciding vote.’

John met Amalric’s blue eyes. The king hesitated for a moment before looking away. ‘Guilty.’

John felt suddenly faint, and William held his arm to steady him. John stood with his head bowed as the seneschal delivered the verdict. ‘John of Tatewic, you have been pronounced guilty of treason. Tomorrow, you will be crucified before the Jaffa Gate.’

The guards came forward and took hold of John’s arms. They began to escort him from the room.

‘Wait!’ William called. He went to John and spoke in a low voice. ‘There is a way to save yourself. You can challenge the judgement. Fight to prove your innocence.’

‘Fight? I can barely stand.’

‘God favours the innocent, John.’

‘God does not play favourites,’ John muttered. But if he were to die, he would rather do so with a sword in hand. He raised his voice. ‘I challenge the judgement. I will fight those who think me guilty.’

The judges turned to look at him wide-eyed. ‘But this is ridiculous!’ Heraclius sputtered. ‘The court has decided.’

‘Our laws grant him the right to challenge those who condemned him,’ the seneschal declared. ‘But to prove his innocence, he must defeat all four of them — or their chosen champions — in a single day.’ He looked to John. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. We will meet in the courtyard at noon tomorrow, and John of Tatewic will fight to prove his innocence.’

John stood in the palace courtyard and looked up at the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Its top had disappeared into the fine, misting rain that beaded on John’s mail armour. He felt William’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It is almost time,’ the priest said. John nodded and lowered his gaze to the courtyard. The stones that paved it were slick with moisture. That would work to John’s disadvantage. His feet were a mess of torn skin and burst blisters; he had almost fainted from the pain when he pulled on his boots. The slick footing would further limit his mobility.

Across the courtyard, King Amalric, Gilbert and Humphrey stood in their mail. The seneschal was there too, along with Heraclius and the patriarch, who had brought a champion to fight for him — Harold, the man with the long gash on his face. The men drew straws to see who would fight first, and the sergeant Harold selected the shortest straw. He grinned and looked to John. ‘Now you will pay for what you did to my brother.’

John did not reply. He exaggerated his limp as he walked to the centre of the courtyard. Anything he could do to make Harold over-confident would help. It was the only advantage that John had.

William handed John a three-foot sword with a grip of worn leather and a wide blade of dark-grey steel. John slashed it side to side, testing its balance. The priest offered John a shield. John tried to lift it, but a blinding pain tore through his shoulder. ‘’Sblood,’ he growled and dropped the shield. ‘It’s no use. Find something to bind my arm to my body. I don’t want it getting in my way.’ William untied the cord about his waist and looped it around John, cinching it tight to pin John’s left arm to his torso. ‘My helmet,’ John said.

William slid the open-faced, iron helmet over John’s head. John turned to face Harold. The sergeant was a squat, thick-necked man. He, too, had opted to fight without a shield. He held his sword with both hands.

The seneschal stepped between the combatants. ‘The swords have been dulled to prevent serious injury. You will fight until one of you yields or cannot continue.’ He stepped out of the ring. ‘Touch swords and begin.’

John turned sideways to protect his vulnerable left side. They touched swords, and Harold attacked immediately, charging and hacking down with a mighty, two-handed blow. John parried and stepped to the side and knelt, raking his sword left to right and catching Harold in the shins. With a cry of pain the sergeant fell forward, losing his sword and landing hard on the stone pavement. As Harold rolled on to his back, John knelt on top of him, slamming his knee into the man’s chest. He pressed the edge of his sword against Harold’s neck. ‘Yield!’ Harold spat in John’s face. John smashed his sword’s hilt into the sergeant’s face, splitting his lip. He hit Harold again, spattering the stones of the courtyard with blood.

‘Enough! Enough!’ Amalric roared. ‘John is the victor.’

John used his sword to push himself up, wincing at the pain in his feet. He hobbled towards William, who was staring at him wide-eyed. ‘God is surely with you, John!’

‘God had nothing to do with it. Harold was angry and over-confident. That won’t happen twice.’

Across the courtyard, Harold had been dragged to the side, and now sat cradling his face in his hands. The other men were again choosing straws. The constable, Humphrey, held up the short one. Without a word he pulled on his helmet and picked up the sword that Harold had dropped. Humphrey was about John’s height and size, but a few years older.

‘Careful of this one,’ William warned. ‘The constable commands the King’s armies. He is a formidable warrior.’

John faced off across from Humphrey. The two men touched swords, and Humphrey began to circle around the edge of the ring, forcing John to turn in order to keep his opponent in front of him. Each step brought a sharp pain in John’s feet. Humphrey kept circling, refusing to close. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ John growled under his breath.

Suddenly, Humphrey charged. John just managed to turn the constable’s sword aside before Humphrey slammed into him, bowling him over. Humphrey landed on top of John, and the two men skidded across the slick stones of the courtyard. John managed to throw Humphrey off, but struggled to rise with his arm pinned to his side. Humphrey was already on his feet while John was still on his knees. The constable attacked with an overhead chop. John parried, and Humphrey kicked out, catching John in the chest. John fell back into a somersault and landed again on his knees. Humphrey charged with his sword held high. As he swung down, John threw himself forward under the blow, slamming into the constable’s knees. Humphrey flipped forward and landed hard, giving John time to push himself to his feet. Humphrey had also risen, and the two warriors faced off.

Humphrey began to circle again. This time, John did not wait for him to attack. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his feet, he charged, thrusting for Humphrey’s chest. The constable was caught off guard and just managed to sidestep the blow. John spun and slashed for his head. Humphrey jumped back out of the way but slipped on the slick pavement. His guard came down, and John swung for his head to finish the fight. Somehow, Humphrey managed to block the blow. Their blades grated against one another and locked at the hilt, bringing the two men face to face. John head-butted Humphrey, who staggered back, his blond beard matted with blood from his nose. John attacked again, putting all his strength behind a slashing backhanded blow. Humphrey parried, but John’s sword glanced off the constable’s blade and caught him on the side of the helmet, leaving a deep dent. Humphrey fell to lie unconscious at John’s feet.

The seneschal proclaimed the obvious: ‘John is the victor.’

A moment later, Humphrey’s eyes blinked open and focused on John. ‘Well fought.’

John dropped his sword and extended his hand to help Humphrey to his feet. ‘I had more to fight for.’

‘Hmph.’ Humphrey pulled off his helmet and gingerly touched the knot forming on the side of his head. He picked up John’s sword and handed it to him. ‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’

Amalric and the patriarch had already drawn straws. The king held the short one. He had begun to put on his helmet when the seneschal placed a hand on his arm. ‘Sire, do you not wish to choose a champion?’

Amalric shrugged off the seneschal’s hand and pulled on his helmet. ‘I will fight for myself.’

‘But sire!’ the patriarch protested. ‘You could be injured, or worse.’

‘How can I condemn this man to death if I am not willing to risk my own life?’

Amalric stepped into the ring and picked up the dulled sword. He rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them. The king was a large man, fleshy but strong looking, and he was fresh. At least the pain in John’s feet had dulled, although he dreaded what he would find when he removed his boots. He turned sideways to the king and raised his sword.

‘God save you,’ Amalric said. He touched his sword to John’s, then attacked straight off, grunting as he hacked down at John’s head. John parried, but the force of the blow almost knocked his sword from his hand. He gave ground as Amalric hammered at him, chopping down again and again. John managed to spin away, but Amalric was on him immediately, slashing for John’s chest. John jumped backwards to avoid the blow. Amalric stepped forward and reversed the direction of his blade, sweeping it up towards John’s head. John ducked and then slipped away to the centre of the ring. He went on the attack, thrusting at Amalric’s chest. The king knocked the blow aside, and John spun, bringing his sword in a wide arc towards his opponent’s head. His blade was met by the king’s steel. John attacked again with a flurry of thrusts, but Amalric easily turned aside each blow. John was breathing hard and his arm was tiring. He had to end this fight soon, and there was only one way to get close enough to strike.

He began to retreat, letting Amalric come to him. The king gripped his sword with both hands and levelled a wicked blow at John’s side. John did not even attempt to block it. He raised his sword over his head and took the blow with a grunt, feeling a sharp stab of pain as a rib snapped. Before Amalric could recover, John stepped inside his guard and brought his sword down, slamming it into the crown of the king’s helmet and leaving a deep dent. The king stumbled back, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. John attacked, but Amalric recovered in time to parry his thrust. Their swords locked together, and the king shoved John, who went reeling back across the ring.

John stood bent over and gasping, each breath an agony. Across from him, Amalric pulled off his ruined helmet and cast it aside. His blond hair was matted with blood. ‘My lord!’ the seneschal gasped as he stepped forward.

Amalric waved him back. ‘Let me finish this,’ he growled and raised his sword.

John did likewise. He straightened and forced himself to smile. He would show no weakness, nothing that might give Amalric an advantage. ‘I am waiting, sire.’

Amalric charged with a roar. At the last second, John threw himself at the king’s legs, but Amalric was ready: he leapt over John and landed on his feet. John rolled and had begun to push himself to his feet when the king’s sword slammed into his back, knocking him flat. Amalric stepped on John’s sword hand and then kicked his sword away. John rolled on to his back and found himself looking up at the point of Amalric’s blade. ‘Well fought, John. But the fight is over. Do you yield?’

John tried to rise, but Amalric stomped on his chest, forcing him back down. John looked past the king’s blade to his blue eyes, and then to the grey sky beyond. So this was how it ended. John closed his eyes. ‘I yield.’

John sat hunched over, his head between his knees, staring at the damp dirt floor of his cell. Today was the day that he would die. From somewhere close by came the sound of dripping water. How many more drops, he wondered, until they came for him? How many more before he was crucified?

The dripping was swallowed up by the sound of approaching footsteps. John shivered, despite himself. The time had come. The footsteps stopped outside his cell. He looked up and was surprised to see William on the other side of the steel bars. ‘I have brought someone to see you,’ the priest said.

William moved aside, and Amalric stepped into the pool of torchlight before the cell. John tried to stand, but the pain from his blistered feet was too great. He sank back down. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise, sire.’ Amalric waved away the apology. ‘Why have you come?’ John asked wearily. ‘Do you wish to see what a dead man looks like?’

‘You are not dead yet, John of Tatewic.’ Amalric produced a key and unlocked the cell. He pulled the door open. ‘I have come to free you.’

John blinked stupidly. ‘What?’

‘I have pardoned you,’ Amalric explained as he stepped into the cell. ‘I have need of men like you, John. You are a man of courage. You almost beat me yesterday fighting with one arm, after having defeated two great warriors.’

‘You are wasting your time, sire. I will not fight the Saracens.’

‘I do not want you to fight. I want you to serve at my court. I am surrounded by spies and intriguers. I could use someone from the outside, someone who is loyal to me alone. And I want you to tutor my young son in the ways of our enemy. You know the Saracens better than any of us. I want Prince Baldwin to speak their tongue, to know their ways. Who better to teach him? Will you serve me, John?’

‘I already have a lord. I cannot serve two masters.’

Amalric frowned. ‘If you will not serve me, then you will die, John.’

‘We are not asking you to betray your Saracen lord,’ William added, ‘but to help bring about peace between our peoples. This is a chance to redeem yourself, John. A chance to earn your salvation.’

John hesitated a moment longer. He nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘There is one condition,’ Amalric warned. ‘You must swear never again to take up arms against the Kingdom or your fellow Christians.’

‘I swear it.’

‘Good!’ Amalric began to laugh his strange, manic laugh. The outburst passed as quickly as it came. He extended his hand. John winced at the pain in his feet as Amalric pulled him upright. ‘You are my man,’ the king said and embraced John. ‘Now, we shall have to see you married.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Life at court is not cheap, John. You need a wife with lands of her own.’ Amalric paused. ‘Why, John, you look as if you had swallowed a camel turd!’

‘I do not wish for a bride, sire.’

Amalric frowned. ‘It is either that or enter the priesthood.’

‘I am no priest. I have loved women, killed men, betrayed vows.’

William smiled. ‘That hardly disqualifies you. The Patriarch of Jerusalem is a brave warrior and a notorious womanizer.’

‘Priests!’ Amalric snorted. ‘Do not bother with them, John. Let me find you a wife.’

‘I-that is-’ John took a deep breath. ‘There is a woman.’

‘You are married?’ Amalric asked. John shook his head, and the king clapped him on the back. ‘Then what is the difficulty? I will find you a local beauty, one of the Syrian Christians, with ample — assets.’ He winked. ‘You will forget all about this other woman.’

‘No, sire. I would prefer to enter the priesthood.’

Amalric’s joviality vanished. ‘I cannot say I understand your choice, but very well. William will see to it. I will see you tomorrow morning at the palace.’ Amalric stepped out of the cell.

‘If I am free, what is to prevent me from leaving the city?’ John called after him. ‘From going back to the Saracens?’

Amalric turned and met his gaze. ‘Your word. That is enough for me.’

The king left, and William entered the cell. ‘Come, John. Let’s get you to your quarters. You will stay at the Hospital of Saint John until you are ordained.’ John put his arm over the priest’s shoulder and leaned into him as they left the cell. ‘After a suitable period as an acolyte, you will be made a canon in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ the priest told him. ‘You will receive a monthly prebend, from which you can pay a vicar to perform your duties. You will spend most of your time at court.’

They climbed a flight of narrow stairs and stepped out into the palace courtyard. It was a brilliant autumn morning, the sky a deep blue. William helped John across the courtyard and through a wide gate that led out into the city. They paused on the far side of the gate. Straight ahead stood the vaulted halls and churches of the Hospitaller complex. John looked down the road to his right, to where a church loomed over a pig market. In the distance to his left, a rocky outcrop rose above the city: the Temple Mount. He could make out the mighty Dome of the Rock, its gilded roof glinting in the morning sun. William noticed his wide-eyed expression and smiled. ‘A pretty sight, is she not? Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City.’