Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER NINE

Through a hazy blackness, Geoffrey heard the screech of tearing wood, and then felt himself seized by the shoulders, and manhandled through a hole in the wall, the ragged edges of which ripped at his hands and face. He was dragged away from the searing heat and found himself breathing cool, clean air. As he gasped for breath and fought to open his eyes, which still burned and stung, he was heaved like a sack along a dark alley and over a wall.

Gradually, he regained his senses. His breathing ceased to rasp, his eyes cleared, and the acid, sick feeling in his stomach caused by the smoke receded. He opened his eyes and saw the explosion of glittering stars in the night sky, blocked immediately by a large, anxious face.

“Roger!” he croaked. “You should be in the citadel.”

“I know how you like a fire of an evening, and I thought you might get carried away,” said Roger. But although he smiled, the humour did not reach his eyes. Roger looked like a man who had been on a battlefield.

“What happened?” asked Geoffrey, struggling to sit up. Roger helped him.

“I did as you asked, and poor Eveline now lies in the street. I even took the knife of the knight who lay next to her, and plunged it into her wound. So people will now assume that Sir Henri d’Aumale killed her.”

“D’Aumale is dead?” asked Geoffrey, his mind whirling.

“I could not tell,” said Roger, “but he was unconscious at any rate. I am not surprised that those Lorrainers are involved in all this. And I would not be surprised if it were them who killed Eveline in the first place.”

Was that it? Was Geoffrey making a mistake in assuming all these incidents were connected? Perhaps this was merely the latest step in the war of attrition the Norman knights had waged with the Lorrainers since the Crusaders had taken the citadel a year before. Geoffrey took a deep breath and coughed violently.

“Shh,” said Roger, looking over his shoulder. “We are in someone’s garden, and we do not want them raising the alarm.”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey. “What happened then? Did anyone see you?”

Roger shook his head. “Two destriers came thundering down the road, and since they were loose and unmarked, they were considered fair game. Most of the knights went tearing after them, and those who did not were watching the fire. Then there was some kind of hubbub at Abdul’s, and everyone who was left went racing back inside. I thought I would wait for you, since the streets had emptied and there was no hue and cry raised for us. But then I saw an odd thing.”

He paused. Geoffrey waited until he thought Roger had forgotten what he was going to say. “What did you see?” he prompted.

Roger gazed at him sombrely. “When all those knights ran into Abdul’s, one went instead to the stables. Smoke was pouring out of the door, and I wondered whether you might emerge and bump into him. But you did not come out, and I saw him heave the doors closed. At first, I assumed he was trying to contain the fire, but then I saw him bar them.”

“Did you see who it was?”

Roger continued to gaze. “It was smoky and dark. But he looked very familiar.”

“Who?” demanded Geoffrey impatiently.

Roger shook his head uncertainly. “I cannot swear to it, lad, but I thought it was Courrances.”

Geoffrey said nothing, but looked at the piece of material he still clutched in his hand: the scrap of cloth that had ripped from a surcoat when someone had leaned against the rough wood of the heavy doors to force them closed. It was an expensive black linen and still clean, even after what it had been through. Geoffrey knew of only one person whose surcoat was black and spotless, and that was Courrances.

He told Roger, and the big knight blew out his cheeks unhappily. “Looks like he does not want you to investigate after all,” he said. “Despite having gloated at the position you were in a few days ago.”

“Perhaps he did not know there was anyone still in the stables,” said Geoffrey uncertainly.

Roger raised his eyebrows. “Maybe. But it was pretty damned obvious the fire was started deliberately, especially since someone had taken the trouble to let the horses out first. He may not have known it was you, of course. Maybe he just does not like arsonists.”

Geoffrey rubbed his eyes, feeling them gritty and sore under his fingers. He wondered when he had last felt so physically and emotionally battered, and slowly climbed to his feet. He wished he could awaken in the morning and find all his suspicions were just dreams, and he could go back to his position of trust with Roger. But even as the wish flitted through his mind, he knew it could never be fulfilled; from now on, he must regard Roger with as much caution as he did Courrances.

“When Courrances had gone, I went to undo the gates, but they had jammed from the inside,” continued Roger, solicitously slipping a burly arm under Geoffrey’s elbow. “I assumed you would be looking for another exit, and came across that weak spot at the back. It was getting unpleasant, with smoke pouring off the roof, and sparks everywhere, but then I thought I heard a scratching sound above all that cracking and roaring. I battered the wall in, and you were just inside.”

“I was lucky you thought to look round the back,” said Geoffrey, trying to clean his begrimed face on his sleeve.

“I know how you think,” said Roger with a sudden grin. “Friends do after a while.”

Geoffrey felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt.

“We cannot return to the citadel looking like this,” he said brusquely, sniffing cautiously at the acrid burning smell that pervaded his clothes. “It might give us away.”

“I know a bathhouse round here that is reasonably clean,” volunteered Roger.

Geoffrey balked at the word “reasonably,” but allowed himself to be led down a maze of twisting alleyways in the general direction of the Patriarch’s palace. Roger moved through the shadows like a great cat, almost as light and fleet of foot as the smaller, more agile Geoffrey. They made little noise, and melted into the shadows when they heard or saw someone coming the other way. By unspoken agreement, every so often one would stop and hide while the other went on ahead to see if they were being followed, but there was no suggestion that they were. Geoffrey was often cautious while out at night, but Roger seldom was, and Geoffrey imagined the events of the night must have shaken him indeed to make him depart from his usual confident complacency.

Eventually, Roger stopped in front of a nondescript house, and looked around carefully before knocking. The door was opened immediately, and the two knights were ushered inside. They were given a quick look over, and then led along a tiled corridor without a word being spoken, and down some stairs to a room in a basement. It was cool, almost chilly, and contained several vats of water that, while they were certainly not freshly poured, were sufficiently clear that Geoffrey could see the bottoms. Just.

The bath attendant eyed Geoffrey and Roger dubiously, and poured a hefty dose of fragrant oil into the water.

“We will smell like whores,” muttered Roger disapprovingly, but stripped off his dirty clothes and presented them in an unsavoury bundle to the bath attendant. Geoffrey did likewise, and climbed into the bath, screwing up his face at the agonising coldness.

“I hate doing this,” he grumbled to Roger, trying to stop his teeth from chattering.

“My father took a bath once,” said Roger conversationally. “He said it was an experience every man should have once in his lifetime.”

“Why?” asked Geoffrey, peevishly. “To mortify the flesh? To curb physical desires?”

“So he would know better than to do it again,” said Roger with a roar of laughter that echoed around the basement room and brought the attendant running in alarm.

“Right,” said Geoffrey, beginning to climb out, “that is enough.”

“You need to put your head under the water,” said Roger, wallowing like a pig. Geoffrey looked at him in dismay. “Your hair stinks of smoke. You need to get it right under.” He nodded at the attendant, and Geoffrey felt powerful hands begin to push him down. He squirmed and struggled, but the oils made the sides slippery, and he was helpless until the attendant pronounced himself satisfied.

“Ordeal by fire and water,” he muttered, climbing out onto a floor that was awash.

While they waited for their clothes to be cleaned, they sat draped in towels, dripping onto the already saturated floor. Geoffrey pretended to be dozing, because he was confused by the information he had collected: he was disturbed by the notion that while Roger attempted to kill Hugh, he had risked his own life to save Geoffrey from the fire. It made no sense. Perhaps Roger was not the one who had killed Marius after all. Perhaps it was Courrances, who had shown his murderous streak by locking Geoffrey in the burning stable. But all knights had murderous streaks, he reasoned, for that was what warfare was all about. Even Geoffrey had been seized with the occasional burst of bloodlust, especially after a long siege or if the opponents were Lorrainers.

Their clothes were returned washed, brushed, and smelling sweeter than they had done since Geoffrey had set off on Crusade. It was an agreeable feeling, and Geoffrey determined not to wait four years before taking his next bath. Outside, the air was still pleasantly cool, although dawn was not far off. Geoffrey breathed deeply and coughed, aware of the lingering effects of the smoke deep in his lungs.

As they walked along the street where Melisende’s house was, Geoffrey melted deeper into the shadows, and Roger, unquestioning, followed suit. Lights were burning dimly in her upper and lower windows, although Geoffrey realized it was not unusual for bakers to be up and busy long before dawn. Nevertheless, he was curious, and edged closer to see if he could see through the shutters.

Fortunately for Geoffrey, there was a split in the wood that afforded him an excellent view of the room within. He saw Melisende and Maria sitting at the table together. Maria had been crying, and there was a vivid bruise on her cheek, while Melisende appeared to be listening to what she was saying. It did not take much imagination to detect that Maria had fled straight from the riot at Abdul’s to the safety and comfort of Melisende’s clean and welcoming home. Maria must have confessed her whereabouts-for Melisende was no fool and would see an immediate connection between Maria’s battered face and a night of fighting at Abdul’s. Which meant, thought Geoffrey, that Maria had probably also told Melisende that she had spoken to him there, and that he had asked her all manner of questions. After all, why should Maria keep his trust when it was no longer necessary for him to keep hers?

He glanced behind to see what Roger was doing, wondering how he might react to seeing his accomplice spied upon, but Roger was doing exactly what he would normally have done-he was prowling the shadows to make sure they were not observed. Satisfied for the moment, Geoffrey put his eye to the crack again and strained to hear what was being said. But however hard he listened, he could hear only the occasional word, and nothing of any note. The two women seemed to be discussing cakes, for words like “raisin” and “almond” cropped up. Then Maria stood and moved toward the window. Her next words brought a whole new flow of questions racing through Geoffrey’s mind.

“Well, if you did not poison them, who did?”

Geoffrey darted back into the shadows as the door opened, and Melisende stepped out, followed by another, taller, person who was swathed in a dark robe. Geoffrey glanced around, and saw that Roger too had made himself invisible. Melisende looked quickly to left and right, and set off up the street, the hooded figure walking beside her.

Roger spoke softly in his ear. “Shall we follow her?”

“I will follow her,” whispered Geoffrey. “You stay here and see what Maria does.”

Roger nodded, although it was too dark for Geoffrey to read his reaction. Was he aware that Geoffrey’s ploy stemmed from a lack of trust, or did he think Geoffrey really considered watching the airheaded Maria important? And more to the point, would he do it, or would he simply follow Geoffrey? Well, we will find out, thought Geoffrey as he trailed after Melisende through the dark streets. As he walked, he tried to remember where he had seen someone with a gait similar to that of Melisende’s companion, but the memory eluded him.

Their progress was slow, verging on the stately, and Geoffrey began to grow bored. They made their way toward Pharos Street, and then plunged into the labyrinth of alleys that lay to the east between St. Stephen’s Street and the Dome of the Rock. Then it was more difficult to follow them, for the streets were short, and if Geoffrey came too close he ran the risk of being seen, while if he stayed too far behind, he was likely to lose them.

He realised they were heading for the jumble of alleys near the Gate of Jehoshaphat, where many of the houses had lain empty for a year. Compared to the Jewish Quarter and to those parts of the city occupied by the Greek community, these houses were palatial. But people were superstitious, and it was not easy to forget the slaughter that had occurred there. Geoffrey had heard that renegade soldiers who had deserted from the Crusader armies inhabited sections of the area, and he knew it was also peopled each night by merchants interested in buying and selling items on the black market. But he did not need rumours to tell him that it was a dangerous place to be at any time, especially in the dark.

They zigzagged deeper and deeper into the maze, and Geoffrey became aware that someone was behind him. He was not surprised, since he had half-expected Roger to follow him. Perhaps Melisende’s tortuous route had even worked to his advantage, he thought, having made it so difficult that Roger had given himself away. At the same time, Geoffrey was not unduly worried by Roger’s presence behind him, since if Roger had meant him harm, he would not have rescued Geoffrey from the fire.

Thus, he was wholly unprepared for the attack when it came. The first indication that all was not well was when a stone from a slingshot thudded into the wall above his head. Startled, he stopped and swung round in time to see a swordsman racing toward him with his weapon at the ready. Geoffrey whipped out his own sword and took up a defensive position. He was surprised to note that it was not Roger who bore down on him like a madman.

He parried the blow that sent shocks down his arm and drew a grunt of pain from his opponent, and he made a quick jab toward the swordsman’s legs before he could recover his balance. The man went down in an inelegant pile of flailing limbs, and Geoffrey turned to face an attack from the other direction. Like the first man, he hurled himself recklessly at Geoffrey, who blocked the hacking swipe and used the momentum to drive the second man stumbling over the first. Then there were two more, not attacking wildly like the first ones, but advancing one from each side, dividing Geoffrey’s attention. When the first man recovered and joined the affray, Geoffrey knew he was in trouble.

But he had faced worse odds in the past, and had certainly encountered far better swordsmen than these. Deciding his best chances lay in attack rather than in defence, he gathered his strength and went on the offensive. With an ungodly howl learned from the Saracens, he leapt at his attackers with great two-handed sweeps of his sword, driving them before him like leaves before the wind. One of them dropped his weapon and fled in the face of the onslaught, and the others wavered. Sensing their weakness, Geoffrey drove again, breaking into a run as they scattered before him. The first man tripped, and Geoffrey pounced on him, thinking to ask him some questions. He had stretched out a hand to haul him to his feet, when a stone from the slingshot hit him on the shoulder, glancing off his chain mail but causing him to lose his balance.

He crashed to the ground and saw the swordsman scramble to his feet, weapon in hand. Geoffrey was not prepared to be dispatched by a mere novice, and he lunged for his opponent’s ankles, abandoning his own weapon as he did so. The swordsman fell again, and Geoffrey tried to clamber to his feet. He was aware that the man with the slingshot was directly behind him, and that the other attackers were returning, rallying their courage now that they saw Geoffrey was unarmed. One of them hacked at him, while another hurled himself at Geoffrey’s knees to bring him to the ground. As he struggled to free himself, Geoffrey drew his dagger. But there was a dull ache in his head, and then nothing.

Geoffrey opened his eyes slowly, aware that hands were moving over him, pulling him this way and that. Gradually, he focused on the face of Melisende, who was searching him expertly, her face a mask of disdain. He was glad he had taken a bath and that his clothes were clean.

He tried to sit up. Immediately, there was a jangle of weapons, and he found himself staring up at four swords and a cocked bow. It was, he thought, flattering, that even flat on his back and, he ascertained quickly, weaponless, these people regarded him with sufficient awe that they considered it necessary for five of them plus Melisende to guard him. And there was another, staring down at him with a curious mixture of irritation and dislike. Brother Celeste from the Holy Sepulchre. Of course! thought Geoffrey. It was Celeste he had seen limping recently as he had led them to talk to old Father Almaric about the death of Loukas in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Contemptuously, Geoffrey pushed the weapons away and sat up, blinking as the world around him tipped and swirled, and then settled again.

“You smell of that disgusting whorehouse!” hissed Melisende with contempt. “Maria told me you had been there asking questions.”

Geoffrey doubted she would believe the fragrant smell came from bath oils and his freshly cleaned clothes, so he offered no explanation. He rubbed his aching shoulder, and raised his eyebrows.

“So now what do we do?”

“You are so arrogant!” said Melisende furiously. “I should have brained you properly.”

“That was you, was it?” he asked. “Well, that makes sense. These poor specimens of soldiers could not have done it.”

The first swordsman moved toward him threateningly. Melisende laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Easy, Adam. He is deliberately trying to antagonise you. Do not give him that satisfaction.”

Geoffrey had seen Adam before, and he understood perfectly well the young man’s passion. It was Adam who had been ousted from Maria’s room at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace to make way for Geoffrey.

Melisende turned back to her captive. “They would have bested you eventually,” she said, eyeing him with the utmost disdain.

“How?” he asked incredulously. “They had run away! They only came back when they saw I was unarmed. And incidentally, hitting someone on the head from behind when he is outnumbered six to one does not constitute a fair fight.”

“And since when have Normans ever engaged in fair fights?” she asked coolly.

So there they were again, back at her favourite topic. Perhaps Maria was right about Melisende’s husband, because something had to account for her abnormal hostility toward Geoffrey. He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat, knowing this was one battle he could not win.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded, holding up the red ruby ring that the Patriarch had given him in payment for his services. Geoffrey glanced up at the sky and saw it was still dark. He could not have been stunned for more than a few moments, but it had been sufficient time to allow her to search him quite thoroughly. The ring had been in a pouch sewn into the inside of his surcoat. In fact, Geoffrey had forgotten it was there. He had been meaning to ask Helbye, who was astute in such matters, to sell it or exchange it for something more useful-Geoffrey found rings interfered with his sword grip, and he never wore them himself.

“I took it from a church,” he replied. He could hardly tell her the Patriarch had given it to him in payment for an investigation into murders that Melisende may well have committed, and yet his reply held a grain of truth-Daimbert represented the Church in Jerusalem.

Her eyes narrowed. “That has an element of honesty about it,” she said bitterly. “For no Norman would hesitate to steal from a house of God. Yet, I know you are lying.”

He doubted she would have believed him even if he had felt compelled to be straightforward with her. And there was a certain justice in the situation, given that he had been equally sceptical of her honesty at various times in the past.

“We will take him with us,” she said to the swordsmen. “Guard him well. You have seen what he is capable of. He fights like the Devil himself.”

“The Devil against the angels,” he muttered, pulling his arm away from Adam, who made a nervous attempt to hold him.

“We cannot take him!” protested Celeste. “He will be a hindrance all the way. And what will we do with him when we get there?”

“Well, we certainly cannot dispatch him here,” said Melisende. “This place may have an abandoned feel to it, but, believe me, there are people watching our every move even as we speak. They will not interfere with us as long as we do nothing to bring attention to these alleys. But it would be disastrous to everyone who uses this place to have a knight killed here. The area would be seething with the Advocate’s men for weeks, and all business would have to cease. No, Brother, I am afraid we have no choice but to take him with us.”

“We could kill him here and take the body with us,” suggested Adam enthusiastically.

Melisende considered. “No,” she said eventually. “He is too heavy. It is better to have him walking.”

Geoffrey was far from reassured by her words, and it was small comfort to know that the only reason he was not being murdered there and then was because someone-possibly involved in even more sinister dealings than Melisende and her companions-might see. He wondered whether this was what had happened to Guido, John and the monks-had they been taken to a different area to be dispatched quickly by a dagger in the back?

“If you attempt to run, my archer will shoot you down,” said Melisende, coldly. “Regardless of who sees. So please yourself. It makes no difference to me.”

She turned and flounced away, leaving the jittery swordsmen and the archer to bring Geoffrey. He was not unduly worried about the archer, for the man was using entirely the wrong arrow tips to penetrate chain mail, and Geoffrey could see his bow was poorly strung. But regardless, Geoffrey would not run-not from fear of the bowman, but because it was very difficult for a knight to run at speed for any distance wearing heavy chain mail and surcoat. He could manage quick bursts over a short distance, and he could maintain a reasonable marching pace for miles, but he would never be able to outrun his guards.

Melisende led them through yet more streets, until Geoffrey was completely disoriented. He glanced up at the stars to gain some sense of direction, and he knew they were moving generally in a southeasterly direction, but it did him no good, since he did not know exactly from where they had started. He wondered where Roger was: Geoffrey had made what was now an obvious error of judgement in assuming it had been Roger who was following him, and he was angry with himself for not paying more attention.

Finally, Melisende halted in front of a shabby house and opened the door with a key. Inside, she kindled a lamp, opened a door that led to some damp stairs, and led the way down. The first flight was wooden, then they turned and descended another of stone. Soon, they stood in a cellarlike room with walls that glistened with water and green slime. To one side lay a long tunnel that sloped downward at a sharp angle. At its steepest points, there were rough steps hewn into the rock, but for the most part it was smooth. At the sight of its black, gaping maw, Geoffrey felt a cold sweat break out all over him, and he was seized by a rising panic.

Melisende lit two more lamps, handed them to her men, and gestured for Celeste to precede them down the tunnel. Geoffrey swallowed hard and clenched his fists to prevent his hands from shaking. He recalled nightmares from his childhood of dark tunnels like this, swelling to fill the entire room and sucking everything down to a bottomless pit. And he remembered even more vividly helping to dig a tunnel to undermine the walls of a castle in France. The walls had collapsed while Geoffrey was inside the tunnel, and he still had nightmares about the long hours spent in the dark, with water rising steadily around him and the air turning foul. He would wake after these dreams feeling weak with a helpless terror that was never equalled by the anticipation or aftermath of even the most ferocious of battles.

Celeste had already disappeared, and the others were waiting for Geoffrey to follow. He contemplated the chances of success if he grabbed the weapon of the nearest swordsman or simply ran back up the stairs, but Melisende seemed to read his thoughts. She seized a dagger from Adam, and waved it at Geoffrey with a menace her swordsmen could never achieve.

“Down you go,” she said.

He swallowed again and forced himself to move his legs, deliberately avoiding meeting her eyes lest she saw the fear he was sure was apparent. At the mouth of the tunnel he faltered, unable to help himself. Melisende gave him a hard poke with the dagger, and he inched forward, walking stiffly, so that he stumbled twice before he was even out of sight of the cavern.

“Where are we going?” he asked to break the eerie silence.

“Have you not heard of the caves and tunnels under the rock on which Jerusalem stands?” she asked. Geoffrey had, of course, but had certainly never entertained the notion of visiting them. “We use them for all sorts of things-communication between different parts of the city, storage, even dungeons.”

Geoffrey’s heart turned to lead. Not that, he thought, not left in a tiny cell thousands of feet below the ground in the pitch blackness, with water rising higher and higher, and the air becoming thin …

“What is the matter? Afraid of the dark?” sneered Melisende, and the contempt in her voice steeled his nerve. He made himself unclench his hands, and used them for balance against the walls. He tried not to think about the great weight of rock pressing down on the tunnel roof, nor of the fact that the cave seemed to be becoming narrower as they descended. It was growing lower too, so that he could feel the rock brushing the hair on the top of his head, and once he cracked his skull painfully.

The water dripping down the walls became an ooze and then a trickle. It lapped around his ankles, seeping icily into his boots. Then it was up to his calves, while the height of the tunnel forced him to walk hunched over. He wondered how there could be enough air to breathe with seven people in such a tiny space, and he began to cough uncontrollably.

“Stop,” said Melisende, catching his arm. “What is wrong with you?” She peered at his face as if looking for weaknesses, and he pulled away angrily to begin walking again. He tried to take long slow breaths to control the trembling in his knees, but he felt as though the atmosphere was growing thinner. However deeply he breathed, he could not seem to draw enough air into his lungs.

The water rose sharply; the bottom of the tunnel dropped away completely; and then the water was over his head, enclosing him in total blackness. The chain mail weighed him down, and he felt himself sinking, down and down in black water that was shockingly cold. Hands grabbed at his hair and the scruff of his neck, and he was hauled gasping and spluttering to the surface by Melisende and the archer, to find the water reached only to his waist. Melisende and Adam exchanged a grin of amusement.

“If you had been watching Brother Celeste,” said Melisende, “you would have seen he did not plough through this pond like a great ox, but took the path that curves around the edge of it.”

Geoffrey began shivering uncontrollably. When, earlier that night, he had decided to take baths more frequently, he had not intended that it be within hours. He sloshed out of the pool and along the path that Melisende had indicated, realising that she had known perfectly well that he would fall in the water without a warning. Well, perhaps that repaid him for the terror he had imparted to her when he had provided her with an escorted visit to the Patriarch’s dungeons. And she clearly had had good cause to be terrified then, since Geoffrey knew she was guilty of something untoward, even if it were not the murders.

On the other side of the pool, the tunnel was little more than a hole, and Geoffrey realised he would have to crawl on his hands and knees. Celeste’s light had already disappeared into the darkness, and there was nothing but an impenetrable blackness. Keeping his eyes firmly closed Geoffrey dropped to his knees, and made his way along the tunnel, feeling it grow smaller and smaller until it forced him to lie on his stomach. He felt a rising panic as he opened his eyes and could see nothing at all-no light ahead, and none behind-and the cold realisation came that they had tricked him into entering a blind alley. Melisende would now block the open end with stone, and he would end his days where he was, in a thin tube with the great mass of rocks pressing down from above, with water trickling in to fill it, and the air becoming more and more difficult to breathe. He stopped and tried to catch his breath, and could not stop coughing.

“Hurry up!” shouted Melisende impatiently from behind him. “I do not like this part, and I resent being holed up here while you mess about.”

Geoffrey never thought he would be so relieved to hear a human voice again. Still coughing, he edged forward and found that the tunnel suddenly expanded so that he could stand. He hauled himself upright and tried not to lean against the wall in relief. One by one, Melisende, the swordsmen, and the archer emerged from the crack and stood brushing themselves down. Experience had taught them where to tread so as not to get wet, and so none were as sodden and bedraggled as Geoffrey. Shaking with cold, he began to think wistfully of the searing heat of the desert.

Melisende urged him on again, and he rounded a corner that led into a vast cavern, like a huge cathedral, lit with torches around the edges. At one end, a number of crates were stored, along with bales of cloth, great boxes of nails and tools, and barrels of wine. The unmistakable aroma of spices bit the cold air too, along with the sharper tang of fruits. Some of the goods bore Greek letters, while others had Arabic script. Here, then, were the illegally imported goods, sold without taxes in the seedier parts of the city. It was this black market that was undermining the Advocate’s power in the city, forcing him to make crippling trade agreements with the Venetian merchants in Jaffa. The Advocate, thought Geoffrey, would give his eyeteeth to see these mountains of illegal imports.

Geoffrey was too exhausted and too shaken to put this information to good use, other than the casual thought that John, Guido and the monks had possibly died because they had stumbled upon this great cache of black-market goods. Was this what Dunstan had blackmailed Melisende about? Her smuggling career? Geoffrey wondered how she could justify being morally harsh with Maria, when her own personal life was so deeply embedded in crime.

Melisende began to deliver orders to her men, who scurried about like ants across the uneven floor of the cavern. Celeste eyed Geoffrey with suspicion.

“What do we do with him now?” The Benedictine shook his head. “It would have been better for everyone-including him-if we had dispatched him in the street.”

Geoffrey, recalling the terrifying journey-and with his stomach sick with anticipation of worse to come, was inclined to agree.

“Even if we had succeeded in killing him without being seen and had successfully hidden the body, it would have been found eventually,” said Melisende, shaking her head and regarding Geoffrey dispassionately. “Imagine the reprisals there would have been had we been suspected of killing the Advocate’s man. Geoffrey Mappestone is a nuisance, but Uncle will know how to deal with him.”

The way she said it, “Uncle” was a sinister title. Geoffrey imagined some small, fat Greek merchant sitting surrounded by his illegal goods in an underground palace somewhere, issuing a continuous stream of orders to hundreds of scurrying servants.

“How will you manage him?” asked Celeste doubtfully, looking Geoffrey up and down like a piece of suspect meat.

Melisende laughed, her voice ringing about the chamber to be thrown back as echoes. “Him?” she said with disdain. “He will be no bother! Look at him!”

Geoffrey was sure he was no longer the picture of sartorial elegance he had been when they had started this journey to hell, but he was still a knight and still larger and stronger than any of Melisende’s motley crew. He began to cough again and then sneezed. Celeste nodded.

“I see what you mean. But you should tie his hands.”

Melisende agreed, and Geoffrey’s arms were tied behind him with unwarranted enthusiasm by Adam, who, judging from the time he took, was determined to do a thorough job.

“Thank you, Adam,” said Melisende, when the young soldier had finally finished.

“I do not trust him,” said Adam, moving toward Geoffrey belligerently, displaying exceptional confidence now that the knight was helpless. “He might overpower you or attempt some trick.”

“There is little he can do,” said Melisende. “Even if he managed to break away, he would never find his way out. And what would he do with no light and no food? Anyway, he does not present a threat to me. He is a thoroughly miserable specimen.”

Celeste and Adam went off to attend their own business, while Melisende turned to Geoffrey.

“Now. We have another little trip to make, you and I. You heard what I said to Adam. It is perfectly true. You are most welcome to run if you like-it would certainly make matters easier for me-but if you do escape from me, you will die here without question.”

He nodded understanding, and Melisende peered at him closely. “You do not like these caves, do you?”

“I have been in more pleasant places,” responded Geoffrey carefully. He did not want to provide her with ammunition with which to torment him on their next journey by telling her there was little that could unnerve him like a dark cave.

“You are quite white,” she said, turning him roughly to face the light, so she could see him better.

“I am quite cold.”

“No,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “It is more than that.”

“I have not slept well for days; I have been locked in a burning stable; I have been in several fights; half of my scalp has been left on that tunnel roof; and I have had two baths,” he said. “Perhaps that explains it.” He did not mention the sickening discovery that one of his closest friends was a murderer, or that being underground came second to nothing on his personal list of horrors.

She grinned. “Typical Norman,” she said. “Soft. Now, you go first, and I will follow. I will use this dagger without hesitation if I think you are up to no good. We are going to see Uncle.”

Geoffrey forced his icy limbs to move, and Melisende directed him across the cavern to the other side. He was uncertain whether to be relieved or afraid that they were to take another route. She directed him to one tunnel of several in a row, and they set off, the light from her lantern creating monstrous patterns on the dripping walls. Unlike the last journey, this one appeared to require some navigating. Every so often, the passageway would fork, and Melisende would pause before making her choice. Geoffrey forced himself to concentrate on what she was doing, and quickly grasped the pattern she was following: at each tunnel entrance, a series of letters in different alphabets was carved, and Melisende merely chose the passages whose letters spelt the word “Kristos” in Greek.

He trudged wearily ahead of her in a variety of directions, which had him wondering whether they were travelling in circles. The passageways all looked the same to him: slender narrow cylinders of roughly hewn rock, some natural, others created by people, but all damp, cold, and airless. At one point, his tiredness led him to select the correct tunnel before Melisende had finished reading the letters, and she eyed him with distrust.

“That did not take you long to work out,” she said with grudging admiration.

“But it will do me no good,” he said, “for I do not know where we are going.”

“To see Uncle,” she said brightly, grabbing his arm and pushing him on.

“But I do not know whether I will like Uncle.”

She laughed behind him. “No. You probably won’t.”

Geoffrey banged his head once again on the low roof, and then slipped in the slime that seemed to grow in all the tunnels Melisende chose. He noticed that the cave walls were becoming narrower again. Melisende bumped into him when he paused, and he skidded a second time. It was difficult to retain his balance with his hands behind him, but he was determined to avoid the indignity of being helped to his feet by the appalling Melisende.

The walls of the passageway were clearly converging, and the roof only just cleared the top of his head. He was forced to turn sideways; and then that too became tight, and he was in the unpleasant position of having one side brushing his face and the other scraping at his hands. Ahead, the tunnel narrowed into a black slit of nothingness, and he stopped. The air was still, damp, and had the chill of the grave. He wondered how long it had been there, unrefreshed from outside, and breathed again and again by the smugglers who used the tunnel. He had heard of poisonous air in caves, and he began to wonder whether the staleness he detected might be attributed to deadly fumes. On cue, he began to cough. He lost his footing and slipped forward, plunging between the narrow walls. He found himself jammed tight, the combined bulk of surcoat and chain mail wedging him so firmly he could not move at all.

He began to struggle, panic sweeping in great waves as he realised he could neither move forward nor backward. Behind him, Melisende insulted, urged, threatened, and finally pleaded, but her voice was a mere babble to him. Finally, she took a handful of his hair and pulled it hard.

“Take a deep breath,” she ordered. “Close your eyes, and count to ten or something.”

He did as she directed, and felt the passage walls recede slightly, so that they no longer felt as though they were crushing him.

“Good. Now take a step forward.”

“I cannot,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I am stuck.”

She gave a heavy sigh and leaned all her weight against him, while he struggled more and more frantically.

“Wait,” she said, leaning down to inspect his hands. “I see. There is an old hook here. The rope is caught on it. No wonder you cannot move.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “So cut the rope.”

She glanced at him uncertainly, but bent, holding the knife at an awkward angle, and began to saw. The teeth-jarring sounds of metal on stone filled the air, accompanied by Melisende’s increasingly impatient sighs. “I cannot cut it,” she said eventually. “Adam did too good a job.”

Geoffrey regarded her with undisguised horror, and the walls began to close in again.

“Do not struggle,” said Melisende crossly. “You will make it worse.” She shook her head in irritated resignation. “I cannot squeeze past you, so I suppose I will have to go back for help.”

The light began to fade as she retraced her steps along the passage.

“No! Wait!”

In a distant part of his mind, Geoffrey wondered whether the agonised yell that rent the air was truly his, or whether some tormented demon prowled the sinister tunnels to give voice to his terror. Melisende came back.

“I will not be long,” she said, in a more gentle tone than she had used with him before. “Adam and the others will be able to pull you free.”

“No,” he said in a calmer voice. “Try cutting the ropes again.”

“I cannot without cutting you.”

“I do not care. Please try.”

With a shrug, she bent, and the sounds of scraping echoed around the tunnel once more. He felt his hands become slippery, although whether from blood or sweat, he could not tell. After what seemed like an eternity, she straightened.

“That might work. Try moving forward.”

He tried, but he was held fast. Melisende shook her head. “I am sorry, I cannot do it. The angle is too awkward.”

“Burn it off then,” said Geoffrey, his panic-ridden mind casting about for any solution that would not leave him trapped between the walls in the pitch dark. “Use the lamp.”

“That is a desperate measure,” she said. “It will be better, and much less painful for you, if I go back. All we need is a saw to cut through the hook, and you will be free.”

But she might be gone for ages! She might consider his release secondary to selling her cakes in the market, or seeing Uncle, or killing another knight. She might leave him there for hours or even days. That thought filled him with such terror that he strained forward with every fibre of his strength. There was a sharp snap, and suddenly he was free, stumbling forward by the momentum of his lunge. He dropped to his knees and tried to catch his breath.

“The hook sheared off. That was quite a feat of strength,” she added admiringly. “She how thick it is?”

Geoffrey did not want to look. He found the rope was loose, and wriggled his hands free. Melisende helped him stand, but he was too shaken to notice the indignity of it all.

“It is not much further now,” she said, patting his shoulder as she might a small child. “The tunnel widens in a moment.”

He began to walk again, more easily now that his hands were free, and saw she was right. The tunnel became more like a corridor, and within moments they came to a flight of steps that led upward. He began to climb, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. Eventually they reached a stout door, and Melisende handed him a key with which to unlock it. Then there were more stairs, this time of wood, not stone, and Geoffrey felt the air growing steadily warmer and fresher.

A second sturdy door led to a dark corridor, and Melisende gestured that he was to lead the way along it. A mouse darted in front of them, and Geoffrey knew he was back above ground level. The relief was so great that he felt as though he could simply lie down where he was and sleep for a week. The corridor led to a hall, where two clerks rose from a bench as they approached. Recognising Melisende, they allowed her past with smiles, and she knocked at the door outside which they had been sitting. A voice called for her to enter.

“Melisende!” exclaimed the Patriarch in pleasure, rising to greet her.

“Uncle,” she responded, with equal warmth.