Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Roger made his announcement regarding the identity of the murderer with pride.

“But it cannot be him, Roger,” said Geoffrey patiently. “The plot is too complex, and he simply does not have the wits.”

“Now you look here, lad,” said Roger, becoming self-righteous. “Just because men cannot write and read does not mean they are stupid. You are too arrogant by half about that learning of yours. I tell you again, your murderer is Warner de Gray. And it was him who killed Marius too!”

Was this Roger’s idea of proving his own innocence, wondered Geoffrey, to blame a man he did not like to make the whole business go away?

“Tell me why you think Warner is the culprit,” he said with resignation.

“Why?” echoed Roger loudly. “What kind of question is that? Because he is a murderer, of course! Why else?”

Geoffrey wondered how he could contrive to send Roger on some spurious mission so that he could confide his fears and knowledge to Hugh. If ever he needed the quiet support, advice, and thoughtful logic of the Norman knight, it was now.

“I do hope you are right Roger,” drawled Hugh, laconically. “That would be a most fitting end to all this ugliness, and we can all get back to the real business of good, honest slaughter.”

“Hear, hear,” said Roger fervently.

“But what more can you tell to enlighten us about this miserable affair?” asked Hugh of Roger.

“It was Warner,” responded Roger with finality.

“So we understand,” said Hugh patiently. “But what are the reasons behind your accusations?”

“Reasons!” spat Roger in disgust. “You sound like old book-brain here. I plan to challenge Warner to a duel before God. God will strike him down because he is guilty!”

Geoffrey stared at him. Roger took the business of duelling with utmost seriousness, and although certainly not a pious man, was far too superstitious to risk calling the wrath of God down on his own head if he did not have absolute trust in his convictions. Geoffrey’s thoughts tumbled together in an impossible jumble, and he longed for Roger to be gone so he could talk to Hugh. But Geoffrey did not want Roger to leave if his intention was to accost Warner and challenge him. That would get them nowhere at all.

“Tell me about Maria,” he said, to change the subject.

“Maria?” asked Hugh. “Now who is she?”

“Maria d’Accra,” said Roger. “The whore I arrested last night.”

“You did what?” said Hugh, startled. “Whatever for?”

“I have not told you that part of my story yet,” said Roger. Hugh leaned forward on his stool and listened with fascination.

“After Geoffrey had gone after that dreadful Greek woman, Maria also left the house, so I followed her, like he told me to. She went straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And she was up to no good at all, for I have never seen such a furtive mover in all my days. The Church, of course, was all locked up, but this did not stop Maria. Over the roof she went, like a monkey. I followed as best I could, although I was slower and less silent. Anyway, she ended up in this little garden, and someone was talking to her there. It was that nice Benedictine, Father Almaric. They talked for a while, and he handed her a scroll. Then she was off over the roof again and back to her father’s butcher’s shop, where I arrested her.”

“What did she do with this scroll?” asked Hugh.

“She hid it,” said Roger regretfully. “Somewhere in the butcher’s horrible premises, I suppose. I could not find it, and she would not tell me where it was.”

“And when did all this happen?” drawled Hugh with evident amusement.

“Last night,” said Roger. “But I only brought her here a short while ago. First, I took her back to that Melisende’s house, thinking to wait there for Geoffrey. But he was so long in coming, I had to bring her here instead, because I was growing hungry and there are only so many sweet cakes a man can eat before his stomach craves meat.”

“Well,” said Hugh, leaning back against the wall. “It is an exciting story, Roger, but hardly one that will convict Warner of murder. And it does not really justify arresting this Maria Akira. She is Abdul’s whore, you say? Perhaps the monk she met in the garden is one of her lovers, and she was merely taking advantage of the absence of her mistress to earn a little extra money.”

“Aye,” said Roger, suddenly deflated, “I suppose you might be right at that.”

Geoffrey was baffled. What was wrong with Roger? He did not usually give up his bigoted opinions with such ease. Geoffrey handed his cup to Hugh to fill. He had to talk to him alone.

“My hands are sore from all that business in the caves last night,” he said to Roger, displaying fingers that were multicoloured with cuts and bruises. “Do you have any goose-grease salve?”

“No,” said Roger, settling down on Geoffrey’s bed. “That bloody dog of yours ate the last of it a month ago.”

“I have some somewhere,” said Hugh, rising.

For Roger to stay and Hugh to leave was not what Geoffrey had intended at all. “It does not really matter,” he said. “But I would like some of that wine you had the other day, Roger.”

“That stuff has long gone,” said Roger, leaning back more comfortably on the bed. Hugh signalled that he would be back, and slipped out. Geoffrey cursed under his breath.

Roger was up in an instant, and had closed the door. Geoffrey reached for his dagger. Was this it? Was this how he had killed Marius? Geoffrey came to his feet in a fighting stance as Roger reached inside his surcoat and drew something out. Roger looked at the dagger with a sad, reproving expression, and held out a scroll for Geoffrey.

“I lied to Hugh,” he said softly. “Maria did not hide the scroll. I took it from her and forced her to read it to me.”

Still holding his dagger, Geoffrey cautiously took the scroll from Roger, alert for any trickery. Roger let his hands fall to his sides while Geoffrey read. It was a letter bearing the Advocate’s seal, and it was addressed to Brother Salvatori. Geoffrey looked at Roger in amazement.

“It is the letter that the Canon of St. Mary’s said had arrived for Guido after he died,” said Roger. “Remember the Canon saying he brought it to the citadel?”

Geoffrey nodded. He scanned through the scroll, then read it aloud.

“‘From Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine and, by the Grace of God, His Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to Brother Salvatori. I am much interested in what you have written, and I have passed the information to Sir Warner de Gray to deal with as he sees fit. You will know that there are many who seek my death, but I am appointed by God, and only He will decide when the time is fit to remove me.’”

He looked at Roger, bewildered, while Roger gazed back at him steadily.

“Guido warned the Advocate that there was a plan afoot to kill him,” Roger said. “He could not write himself, so he hired Jocelyn to write for him. Then they were both murdered.”

Geoffrey shook his head slowly, staring down at the letter in his hand. “Guido wrote as Brother Salvatori,” he said slowly. “Not as Sir Guido of Rimini. So of course the Advocate had no reason to associate a message from an Augustinian monk called Salvatori with the murder of Guido.” He sighed and shook his head. “But I do not understand the connections. How did this letter come to be in the possession of Father Almaric? And why did he give it to Maria?”

But even as he spoke, details were becoming clear in his mind. Maria, the spy spying on the spy, pretending to be flighty and empty-headed so that she would not be suspected. He had decided that Maria may well have arranged for John and Pius to be killed in the homes of her employer and hated father, respectively. And now she had come into possession of a vital piece of evidence that had disappeared.

Roger swallowed and looked away. “I will tell you what I think, but you have to let me finish all of what I have to say. Will you listen without breaking in?”

Tendrils of unease uncoiling in his stomach, Geoffrey nodded.

“When I mentioned Maria d’Accra, Hugh acted like he had never heard of her.” Roger raised his hand to stop Geoffrey from speaking. “Listen to me!” he snapped. “We do not have much time. Then Hugh referred to her as Maria Akira, although I called her Maria d’Accra-her whore name. And I did not say she were one of Abdul’s women, but Hugh knew.”

“So what?” said Geoffrey when Roger paused. “You know he can be a snob. He probably did not want to admit that he frequents the same whorehouses as you do.”

“Then you hid them scraps of parchment in that hole in the fireplace.” Roger rummaged around inside his surcoat and produced one that was still recognisable, but partially burned. “I found this in Hugh’s fireplace yesterday. You see, I saw he had lit a fire, and he never does that-you are the one who likes fires, not him-and I was curious. I found this scrap and thought it looked like one of the ones you stole from Dunstan’s desk, although they all look alike to me.”

Geoffrey took it, his thoughts in turmoil. Was Roger, having failed in his attempt to implicate Warner, now trying to blame Hugh?

“I saw you put them parchments in that hole,” said Roger heavily, “while Hugh looked like he was still asleep on the bed. But I happened to glance at him as you did it, and his eyes were wide open. He saw where you put them as clearly as I did.”

“But he did not knock himself on the head when Marius was stabbed,” said Geoffrey harshly.

“Did anyone?”

“You saw the blood! You bandaged his head for him!”

“Aye, lad. I saw a good deal of blood,” said Roger somberly. “It was all around poor Marius. But I saw no great gash on Hugh. He fussed and squirmed when I was trying to clean it, and would not keep still. I did not see his head clearly, because he would not let me. But I would have seen a serious wound. And use those wits you are so proud of, Geoffrey! If you were Hugh and you had a serious wound, would you rather have you tend it, with your scraps of medical knowledge and clean hands, or me, with my great clumsy fingers and ragged fingernails?”

It had been something that had rankled at the time, and that had been nagging at the back of Geoffrey’s mind ever since. He had always been the one to tend their various wounds in the past, and it had surprised him that Hugh had asked Roger to do it in his stead. Roger was rough and scarcely dextrous.

“I can see you do not believe me,” said Roger quietly. “But I can also see that you have had your suspicions. Believe me, I wish I was wrong!”

Geoffrey looked from the burned parchment, to Guido’s letter, to Roger. Now what? he thought wearily. “When Hugh comes back with the goose grease …”

“You will see no goose grease,” said Roger with certainty. “Hugh will be off to find that incriminating scroll in Akira’s shop.”

Geoffrey did not believe him for an instant.

“And what about that dagger and the pig’s heart?” he asked. “I suppose Hugh put them in here too?”

Roger scowled in thought as he sifted slowly through the evidence. Eventually, he pulled a face and admitted defeat. “No, lad. You have me there. I asked around the kitchens to see if Hugh had brought them a pig, but pork is expensive here, and only Courrances eats it regularly.”

Geoffrey stared at him. “Courrances?”

Roger nodded. “Aye. Pigs are not common here, as you pointed out earlier, but Courrances often gets a pig delivered because the Advocate is fond of a bit of pork …”

Geoffrey snapped his fingers. “Courrances left the dagger and the pig’s heart! Of course! It was after the so-called warning that Courrances asked me to investigate these murders for the Advocate. And Courrances not only knows where to buy a pig, he knows the style of weapon used on the murder victims. He described one to me after the riot near Melisende’s house. He did not intend it to be a warning at all! He hoped it would make me curious enough, or frightened enough, to comply with the Advocate’s request that I investigate.”

“I do not understand why he wanted you involved at all,” said Roger. “He does not like you in the slightest.”

“But that is exactly why,” said Geoffrey, thinking quickly. “He already had his suspicions that a knight might be involved in all this, and he did not wish to put himself at risk by investigating, so he recruited me instead.”

“You must have made his day then,” said Roger, “when you agreed to do it almost immediately.”

Roger was right, thought Geoffrey. The reason he had agreed so readily was because Tancred had already asked him to investigate, and the Advocate’s request actually made the situation simpler for him. But Courrances had not known of Tancred’s charge, and far from being relieved that he had passed the dirty work to a much detested comrade, his suspicions would have been roused. He must then have wondered whether Geoffrey was responsible for the murders; hence, Courrances’s attempt to kill Geoffrey in the burning barn.

He stood abruptly, pushed past Roger, and headed for Hugh’s room on the floor above. It was, as always, meticulously tidy, with his clean shirts piled neatly on one shelf and some carefully washed goblets on another. Geoffrey began to poke around.

“Nothing!” he said to Roger eventually. “There is nothing here to indicate that Hugh is responsible for what you are suggesting.”

“Well, he is hardly going to leave it in full view, is he?” said Roger reasonably. He elbowed Geoffrey out of the way and made for the locked chest on the floor. Here, Geoffrey knew, was where Hugh stored the booty he had collected along his arduous journey from Germany. Before Geoffrey could stop him, Roger had drawn his sword and was levering off the locks.

“He will be furious …”

“He will not be back!” snapped Roger. “He has gone after bigger prizes than these tawdry baubles.” The locks broke, and Roger threw up the lid. Both knights peered inside. The exquisite cups of silver, the heavy gold coins, and the wealth of rings, bangles, and necklaces that they knew were stored in the chest had gone. All that was left were some old shirts.

Geoffrey watched as Roger rummaged. Then Roger’s shoulders slumped. Geoffrey leaned over him and saw what the shirts had concealed: three long, curved daggers with jewelled hilts, two of them still stained dark with blood. And although they were certainly similar to the one Courrances had left in Geoffrey’s room, they were not identical.

Geoffrey sat down on Hugh’s bed with a thump, and swallowed hard.

“Hugh?” he said, meeting Roger’s eyes. “It was really Hugh?”

Roger nodded. “I wish I was wrong. But I put things together-the burnt parchment; the fact that he would not let you see to his wound; the fact that the blood was still warm on Marius when we got back, but Hugh claimed Marius had not had time to tell him anything; and the fact that although he would not go out to investigate with you, he still wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know how long he could let you live before he was forced to kill you too.”

Geoffrey felt sick. “How could I have been so wrong? And all the while, you were working things out so easily!”

“Hardly that, lad,” said Roger with a rueful smile. “It took some hard thinking, I can tell you, and I gave myself aching wits in the process!”

“I warned him,” said Geoffrey, remembering his conversation with Hugh earlier that day when he had been so exhausted. “I told him I was close to solving the murders, and that it was someone in the citadel. I meant him to beware of you, but instead I probably told him it was time to kill me!”

“I saw him!” exclaimed Roger suddenly, sitting back on his heels. “When you were asleep, I saw him outside your chamber. He told me he had lost a coin, and we looked about for it, although we both knew we would find none.”

Geoffrey regarded Roger soberly. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Marius’s body was still warm when we found it, yet Hugh said Marius had only just started to talk to him. And we were gone a long time. Marius’s story as told by Hugh had inconsistencies-he said Marius claimed to have seen from the door that Dunstan had been strangled, but the scriptorium was far too dark for him to have seen that far, even with a lamp.”

Roger nodded slowly. “Hugh was simply repeating Marius’s gabbled story that he gave when he arrived.”

“Which must mean that he and Hugh had said a great deal to each other before Marius was killed. And it explains why Hugh volunteered to stay with Marius in my chamber.”

“But you said it was that other monk-bald Brother Alain-who made Dunstan’s death look like murder instead of suicide,” said Roger. “So, what did Hugh and Marius talk about?”

Geoffrey thought, watching Roger play idly with one of the daggers. “When Alain thought he would make Dunstan’s suicide appear as murder in a feeble attempt to protect the popular Marius, his plan had exactly the reverse effect. Marius must have believed that Dunstan had been murdered because of what he knew of the deaths of Guido, John, and the monks-and Dunstan certainly knew more than he had written down for Tancred, because he was using the information to blackmail the killer. The reason Dunstan’s and Marius’s investigation met with so little success was that they knew the identity of the killer from the start-or perhaps had discovered it, and were persuaded to go along with his plan. So Marius fled the palace and came to the citadel in terror, because he thought Dunstan had been killed for this knowledge, and he imagined he might be next.”

“And Hugh talked to Marius to lull him into a false sense of security,” said Roger. “Then Hugh stabbed him because Marius running here-on the surface of it to you, but really to Hugh-was a liability. And Hugh is not a man to allow a panicky monk to upset his plans.”

Roger was right there too. There was a ruthless streak in Hugh that would have no compunction in dispatching a weak-willed monk in order to carry out his own business. While on desert duty, Geoffrey had once seen Hugh kill a small child to ensure it did not cry out and reveal their hiding place. They had later quarrelled bitterly about it.

Roger took a deep breath. “What a foul business! He was our friend. What do we do now?”

Geoffrey sat back on the bed and tried to think. Of all the knights at the citadel, Hugh was the very last one he would have imagined to be the killer. They had been friends for more than three years and had saved each other’s lives on so many occasions that Geoffrey could scarcely recall them all. And of Roger and Hugh, Geoffrey had far more in common with the literate, intelligent Hugh than with the ignorant, slow-witted Roger. He found his hands were shaking, and he felt weak and sick. Perhaps there was some other explanation for all this. Perhaps Courrances had taken the loot from Hugh’s chest and put the daggers there, much as someone-Courrances again, no doubt-had tried to have Roger found in bed with a dead prostitute.

“Come on, lad,” said Roger, standing up suddenly. “If your wits are failing you, mine are still working. It is obvious where we go next. Hugh thinks the scroll from Brother Salvatori is hidden in Akira’s house. He will be searching there for a while, because obviously we have it here. If we hurry, we might catch him in the act. And who knows, perhaps we can talk some sense into him.”

There was no point in using horses to reach Akira’s shop. The streets in that part of the city were too narrow, and it would only take a lumbering cart, or an uncooperative rider, to block their passage completely. Clad in half-armour-light chain-mail shirt and leather leggings-Geoffrey set off on foot, confident that he could make better time running than Hugh could make on horseback. Hugh, like most knights, never walked when he could ride.

Roger yanked at the bar on the gate, while Geoffrey fretted impatiently.

“Off somewhere nice?” came a silky enquiry at his shoulder. Geoffrey saw that Courrances was watching their movements carefully, his sharp, clever mind considering what they might mean.

“The most salubrious establishment in the city,” replied Geoffrey, breaking away from Courrances to run after Roger, “Akira’s meat emporium.” The black-robed Hospitaller thoughtfully watched him dash away.

People scattered as the knights ran through the narrow streets. Geoffrey heard an outraged howl and saw that Roger had rushed into a fruit barrel, and oranges were rolling in every direction; a few were crushed by Geoffrey running behind, but many more stolen by quick-fingered children. Roger, ahead of him, was unfaltering, and made his way purposefully toward the butchers’ alleys. Eventually, they skidded to a halt at the corner of the butchers’ street. There was no sign of Hugh’s horse, and the street looked deserted. Breathing heavily, they walked cautiously down the road and looked into Akira’s shop.

Inside, the floor was still dark with the stains of his trade, and the flies and maggots still feasted. Except that this time, Akira had joined the ranks of the victims and hung from one of the hooks in the ceiling, slowly rotating this way and that. Geoffrey started to lean back against the wall in defeat, but thought better of it when he saw the splattered blood. Roger surged past, his sword in his hand, and thundered up the stairs.

“Empty,” he said, returning a few moments later. “And now Hugh will know I tricked him. Nothing could be hidden up there. It is bare.”

Geoffrey walked over to the dangling corpse, and looked up at it.

“Help me, Roger!” he said urgently, sheathing his sword, and grabbing Akira’s legs. “He is still alive!”

Roger lowered the hook on its chain, while Geoffrey supported the greasy bundle that was Akira. The rope, Geoffrey realised, had been passed under Akira’s arms, not round his neck as Geoffrey had supposed, and Akira’s feet were swollen, so he must have been hanging there for quite some time. The butcher began to regain consciousness.

“Whoreson!” he muttered.

“Ingrate!” retorted Geoffrey.

Akira forced his bloodshot eyes open, and fixed them blearily on Geoffrey.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said in tones far from friendly. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to see if a friend of ours was visiting,” said Geoffrey. “But what about you? Will you live? Shall I send for a physician?”

Akira struggled into a sitting position and reached out a bloodstained hand to grab Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey winced at the powerful aroma of old garlic that wafted into his face.

“You must tell the Patriarch that they tried to murder poor Akira,” he moaned.

“I will indeed,” said Geoffrey, trying to extricate himself from Akira’s powerful grip. “I am sure he will be deeply shocked to hear of your accident.”

“Accident!” snorted Akira, shifting his hold on Geoffrey’s shoulder to one that was stronger yet. “They tried to kill me. Not even quickly like that poor monk, but slowly.”

“Who?” asked Geoffrey absently, racking his brain to think of places Hugh might go.

“Maria and her vile lover. Adam is his name.”

Geoffrey was puzzled. “It was not Sir Hugh of Monreale who did this to you?”

Akira snorted. “If you mean that skinny, fair-haired knight, he was here before you, but didn’t even pause to see if I was alive. And you,” he said, turning suddenly and fixing Roger with a baleful eye, “didn’t heed Akira’s pitiful calls when you came to arrest that treacherous whore.”

“I thought you had arrested her inside the house,” said Geoffrey to Roger.

Roger shook his great head. “Outside. She was about to enter, but I got her outside. I do not like the smell of this place very much. No offence,” he added to Akira.

Akira, using Geoffrey as a crutch, heaved himself up and lunged on unsteady legs to his stool near the window.

“Why did Maria do this to you?” Geoffrey asked.

“Oh, she hates old Akira,” said the butcher in a nasal whine. “She told me last night, when I was hanging there like a trussed goat, that she wanted me to be blamed for these vile murders. She wanted to pay me back.” He began to weep crocodile tears, and Geoffrey sensed the war of attrition between the wily old butcher and his scheming daughter had been waged over many years, and that no love was lost between them. Akira’s false tears now were probably aimed to make the knights feel sorry for him and leave him some money.

Akira continued his sorrowful tale. “But those priests were kind, and didn’t arrest old Akira when I found Brother Pius in my shop. Then yesterday, that Maria says she’s leaving the city with her lover. Adam.”

Geoffrey wondered whether it was Adam or Maria who had led the other to betray family and friends. Maria had tried to kill her father and had tried to implicate him and Melisende in the murders; meanwhile, Adam was a Greek spying on his own community under Melisende’s command. What a pair!

“She brung me cakes once,” said Akira, blubbering with self-pity, “but when I gives one to old Joseph, he dropped down dead. So, she’s tried to kill me before!”

“Old Joseph?” queried Geoffrey, hoping this was not another priest or knight.

“My cat!” wailed Akira, fresh tears welling down his cheeks. “I tried hard with Maria. But after all I did, she still finds me repulsive!”

Really? thought Geoffrey, unable to stop himself glancing at the sordid room and its shabby inhabitant, I wonder why? But if Maria had sent poisoned cakes to her father, she had probably also sent them to Dunstan. Melisende, it appeared, was blameless for that part of the mystery after all. And with sickening clarity, Geoffrey suddenly realized exactly how Maria had done it. Marius had smuggled whores into the scriptorium on Thursdays, and the one Alain loved was called Mary. It was probably Maria, and she had left the cakes for Dunstan at the same time. And sweet old Father Almaric, who had given Maria the scroll addressed to Brother Salvatori from the Advocate, was the same trusted associate of the Patriarch who had recommended Maria to Melisende!

“Is this making any sense to you, lad?” asked Roger, rubbing at his head tiredly. “Because I am flummoxed!”

“That does not surprise me in the slightest,” came the soft voice they knew so well from the doorway. Geoffrey whirled round, his sword already out of its scabbard, but Hugh had two archers with their bows at the ready at his side and Geoffrey faltered. Hugh saw his hesitation and nodded. “You are wise to be cautious, Geoffrey. I have come too far to be stopped now, and if you make the slightest move toward me, these men are under instruction to kill you.”

Geoffrey felt sick. So far, the notion of Hugh’s treachery had been a distant thing, something with which he had not yet had to come to terms. Now, Hugh was standing in front of him, threatening to kill him as easily as he had killed the Bedouin child in the desert.

“Hugh …” he began, taking a step forward. Immediately, both archers swung their bows round to face him, and Geoffrey saw their wrists begin to draw back. He stopped.

“Throw down your weapons,” ordered Hugh of Geoffrey and Roger. Geoffrey hesitated, but saw the resolute expression on Hugh’s face. He dropped his sword and then heard Roger’s clatter to the ground behind him. “Now your daggers. Both of them,” he added for Roger’s benefit. “And move back against that wall.”

Geoffrey and Roger backed away until they stood side by side against the far wall. Akira slouched with them, moaning softly, while Hugh’s archers were ranged opposite, their eyes never leaving Geoffrey and Roger. Hugh made a motion with his hand, and others clustered into the small room, one of which was the gentle Father Almaric, who smiled beneficently at Geoffrey. Another was Adam, who made a threatening gesture toward the cowering Akira.

“Please,” Akira whispered. “I got nothing to do with all this. I’m only a poor butcher. Let me go, and you won’t be sorry. I got some nice lean meat round the back, and I’ll keep you supplied for as long as you stay in our lovely city.”

Hugh looked around him and shuddered. “It is a tempting offer,” he said. “But I am afraid I must decline.”

“Did you kill them, Hugh?” asked Geoffrey softly. “Did you kill John, Guido, and the monks?”

“Not Loukas, the last one,” said Hugh. “That was none of my doing. But I was forced to kill Guido and John. I offered them a chance to join our select group to replace this vacillating Advocate who festers on the throne of Jerusalem with a strong king, but they declined. Since I had already given them details of our plan, they had to die.”

“Why them?” asked Geoffrey, a sick feeling spreading through him as he imagined the young, impressionable John at the mercy of such ruthless cunning as Hugh’s.

“You already know,” said Hugh. “I need strong and intelligent soldiers for my plan to work. Guido was grieving for his wife and was considering taking the cowl; I needed him because he was an excellent strategist. I killed him as he strolled in the gardens at the Dome of the Rock, which had become a habit of his. And John was intelligent and a man of integrity; he would have been an asset to our cause. I had Maria lure him to her mistress’s house, where I, not a welcoming lover, awaited him. But others listened and have joined with us-all good, strong men who want to see Jerusalem remain in Christian hands, not taken back by the Saracens just because the present Advocate cannot keep it.”

“And Jocelyn and Pius?”

“I had to kill Jocelyn because he helped Guido write a missive to the Advocate outlining our plans. Fortunately, Guido refrained from mentioning me by name and was stupid enough to sign with his monkish name. Had he signed himself Guido and not Salvatori, I might have been in serious trouble. Jocelyn was also a double agent for the Patriarch and was simply too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

“And Pius?”

Hugh shrugged. “Jocelyn was very careful during the two days after Guido’s death-he knew he was in danger. I followed him one night and killed him just as he reached the Dome of the Rock and thought he was safe. On the way, I saw him stop and talk to a monk. I could not take the risk that Jocelyn had told this monk our secret, so I killed him too. Maria opened the door of this place so I could leave the body here. You see, I had to create a smoke screen to prevent anyone seeing a pattern in the deaths. I used those cheap daggers from the market so that people might believe the killings were ritualistic, and I even managed to retrieve them on occasion to thicken the mystery. But the one I used on John was stolen from his corpse. You cannot trust anyone in this city.”

Geoffrey regarded him sombrely. “Poor Pius had trouble sleeping. I am sure Jocelyn told him nothing. Pius was probably only making idle chatter with a fellow monk out in the night.”

“I cannot help that,” said Hugh abruptly. “One cannot be too careful in these political games. But I am innocent of that Greek monk’s death. The word is that the Patriarch had him killed, although I cannot think why.”

“And Maria helped you hide the bodies?” asked Geoffrey.

“Maria, Adam, and Father Almaric, among others. It was Almaric who was able to warn me about Guido’s letter to the Advocate outlining our plans.”

Father Almaric stepped forward and, beaming benignly, sketched a benediction at Geoffrey and Roger. Geoffrey wondered if he was in complete control of his wits. It was Almaric who had recommended Maria to the Patriarch as a maid to Melisende: a spy to watch over a spy.

“I know,” said Geoffrey. Hugh looked startled, and Geoffrey explained. “Jocelyn used Father Almaric as confessor, presumably because Almaric professed to be one of the Patriarch’s most loyal subjects, and Jocelyn assumed anything passed to Almaric would not only be under the seal of confession, but safe because Almaric was the Patriarch’s man. But when Celeste reminded Father Almaric that the monk with the distinctive eyes came to him for confession, Almaric pretended to have forgotten him.”

“But it is true, my son,” said Almaric, earnestly. “I forgot so much because of the incessant agony in my feet. But since I tried the remedy you recommended, I have been much better. I am able to walk, and the pain is so much improved that I am able to sleep much better at night, and so wake refreshed and sharp-witted in the mornings.”

Wonderful, thought Geoffrey. He had guilelessly acted as physician to a man who was attempting to murder the Advocate.

“The letter the Advocate wrote to Guido?” asked Geoffrey. “How did you come to have it, Father?”

Hugh sighed and closed his eyes. “Does it really matter?” he said, wearily. “Sir Armand of Laon-he is one of us-appropriated it when it was delivered to the citadel. He gave it to Almaric for safekeeping when you began your enquiries. I sent Maria to fetch it when I decided it was time to put our plan into action. Father Almaric has been a good ally, but he is forgetful, and I wanted the letter in my possession lest my plan, for some reason, failed.”

“And Dunstan? How did he find out all this?”

Hugh gave a hearty sigh. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than to satisfy your curiosity? Dunstan found notes made by Jocelyn in Jocelyn’s desk in the scriptorium. Dunstan was foolish enough to believe he could blackmail us. I simply arranged that Maria send him some of her cakes, but not before I had a quiet word about what happened to men who tried to blackmail me. I suppose I literally frightened him to death.”

That would explain Dunstan’s increasing agitation in the days before his death. Foolish, greedy monk. If he had gone directly to the Patriarch with his findings, he would still be alive, and so, probably, would Marius. And Geoffrey would never have been dragged into the investigation, and Hugh would be safely behind bars, along with his seemingly formidable force of supporters.

“And of course, you killed Marius and pretended to have been attacked in the process.”

Hugh shrugged. “What else could I do? I had recruited him to our cause when he began his so-called investigation with Dunstan. But he was foolish enough to come running to me when he thought Dunstan had been murdered. He was simply too much of a liability. I talked with him for a while, to make certain he had made no written records of what he knew, and then I stabbed him. I smeared the blood from his wound onto my head to convince you I had been hit.”

“Why did you do all this, Hugh?” Geoffrey asked softly. “Was it worth the price?”

“Oh yes,” said Hugh, surprised by the question. “And it would have been worthwhile for you, too, given time. You are my friends. I would have looked to your interests.”

“But I would not want to profit from such crimes,” said Geoffrey coldly.

“You would,” said Hugh earnestly. “Why not join us! We plan to kill the Advocate within the next two days, and hold the throne for Bohemond. This city needs a man like Bohemond. The Advocate is a weakling, and even his own men admit it. We have seven of his knights in our ranks, and every one of them is with us because they know the Advocate is a poor leader.” He left his men and moved nearer to Geoffrey. “Come with us, Geoffrey! You have been on desert patrols, and you know that the Saracens are waiting out there like wolves as the Advocate’s rule grows steadily more chaotic. If we are to keep this land Christian, we need Bohemond on the throne.”

Geoffrey said nothing, and Hugh turned to Roger.

“You come with us, then!” he said. “You are Bohemond’s man! You owe it to him to help us rid ourselves of this pathetic Advocate who is killing our hold on the land.”

“All right, then,” said Roger agreeably. “Might as well swing for a sheep as for a lamb! I am with you, if it is for Bohemond you are working.”

“No, Roger!” cried Geoffrey. “This is treason! How do you know Bohemond is even aware of these plans?”

Hugh grinned at Roger and thumped him on the back in delight. “Good man! I should have known I could trust you.”

“Aye, lad,” said Roger, returning Hugh’s smile. “You should have had me in on all this before. I would have been an asset to you.”

“You still will be, Roger,” said Hugh. “Now, we have wasted enough time answering Geoffrey’s questions, and we have a lot to do.” He turned to Akira. “You have a cellar, I believe?”

Akira looked astonished. “How the hell did you know that?” Then his expression hardened. “That bloody Maria!”

Hugh smiled. “Open the door, if you would. You and Sir Geoffrey are going to spend some time together.”

Geoffrey’s heart sank as he saw Akira fumbling around in a distant, fetid corner to haul open a heavy trapdoor that had been concealed under the moving red carpet of his floor. Roger helped him haul it open, and Hugh took a lamp from Adam and peered down into the yawning hole.

“That should do,” he said, satisfied. He straightened up and looked across to Geoffrey and Akira, gesturing elegantly to the hole in the floor with his hand. “All yours, gentlemen.”

“Now, you just wait a minute!” blustered Akira. “I’m not going down there! That trapdoor’s heavy and can’t be reached from down below. How do I know you’ll come back and let us out?”

“My dear fellow!” exclaimed Hugh. “I assure you I have no intention of letting you out. I am afraid this is the end of the road for you, Akira. Your daughter tells me your customers are few these days, but that the trapdoor is sufficiently thick to muffle any cries for help anyway. She tells me you left her there on several occasions.”

“That was years ago!” protested Akira. “And I’m an old man now! Please let me go …”

“Shall I kill them?” asked Adam, stepping forward eagerly.

Hugh shook his head. “Down in the cellar is better-no mess to clear up, you see.” He looked around him in disgust. “Not that it would make much difference here.”

“Think about what you are doing, Hugh!” said Geoffrey, desperately. “If you fail, you will die as a traitor.”

“Believe me, Geoffrey,” said Hugh, “I have thought about little else since this notion came into my head about three months ago. The Advocate must die. You are either with us, or against us, and you have made your position abundantly clear. We have been friends, and I do not want to watch you die. Now, jump down the hole, if you please.”

Adam gave Geoffrey a shove that sent him staggering toward the cellar. Geoffrey glanced down at its black depths and gave Hugh an agonised look. Hugh wavered. He had forgotten Geoffrey’s intense dislike of underground places.

“I would rather die now, up here,” Geoffrey said quietly.

“No, you would not,” said Roger, wrapping his arms around Geoffrey in a powerful grip that rendered him helpless. Geoffrey felt himself lifted like a rag doll, and then he was bundled through the trapdoor before he could offer more than a token resistance. He was not sure how far he fell, but he landed hard on a stone floor, jarring his ankle and cracking his arm painfully against a roughly hewn wall. There was a yowl like a mating cat, and Akira landed on top of him, driving the breath from his lungs.

“See you in hell!” Roger shouted down after them with a diabolical laugh, before the door was dropped back into place and Geoffrey and Akira were plunged into total darkness. Immediately Akira sprang up and howled in such a dreadful way that it served to force Geoffrey out of his own terror in order to make the butcher desist. Geoffrey took a shuddering breath, noting that not the merest glimmer of light could be seen through the edges of the trapdoor. No wonder Maria hated Akira if he locked her in here. He swallowed hard and crawled across to the screeching meat merchant.

“Akira!” yelled Geoffrey, grabbing at his clothes. “Be quiet! I cannot think with all that noise!”

Akira clutched at Geoffrey, and seemed to become calmer at human contact.

“We’ll die here!” he snivelled.

“How tall is the room?”

“Taller than you,” sniffed Akira. “And taller than you with me on your shoulders, so don’t think we can get out that way.”

Geoffrey released Akira and sat back. He put his hands in front of his face, but could see nothing. It had been like this when the tunnel had caved in on him in France. And the air in Akira’s cellar was rank, as though something had died down there. Geoffrey recalled Maria’s claim that she had a sister called Katrina who Melisende had never heard of, and felt a cold fear grip like an iron band around his chest. He forced himself to crawl on hands and knees to feel the walls, partly to see how big the cellar was, but partly to reassure himself that no skeletons lurked in its gloomy depths.

“Here! What are you up to?” queried Akira suspiciously.

“Just trying to see how far back the cellar goes,” said Geoffrey, his voice far from steady. He took a deep breath. Now, not only one friend had turned traitor, but two! Not only traitor, but they had wanted him dead. Neither had had the courage to kill him outright, and they had condemned him to die in the very way they both knew he dreaded more than any other. He found the wall and leaned his hot forehead against its chilly roughness.

“Well, wait a minute, then,” said Akira. “I got a candle.”

He rummaged around for a few moments; there were some scratching noises accompanied by some foul language, and then the cellar was alive with dancing shadows.

“I always keeps a candle down here,” said Akira. “I stores me valuables down here, you see.”

“How do you get out,” asked Geoffrey, instinctively moving nearer the light.

“I lets a rope ladder down,” said Akira, “and then I climbs back up it.”

Geoffrey looked around their cell. Akira had been right when he had said they would not reach the trapdoor, for the ceiling was indeed taller than his and Akira’s height combined. No wonder his ankle ached viciously from where he had landed on it. The cellar was the same size as Akira’s room above, large enough for two men to lie end to end in either direction. It was empty, except for a strong wooden box in one corner and various rags and bones strewn about the floor. Geoffrey remembered Katrina and scrambled to his feet.

The underground room was hewn out of solid rock, and so they would never be able to tunnel their way out. Geoffrey began to feel the familiar tightening around his chest when he imagined lying in the sealed chamber with Akira, with the air growing thinner and thinner …

“What else do you have in here?” he asked, only to hear the sound of Akira’s voice, not to solicit information.

“None of your business,” snapped Akira, walking over to the wooden box and covering it with one of the rags from the floor. “This is all your fault,” he said, suddenly aggressive. “If you hadn’t hung around old Akira’s house, then I wouldn’t be down here now, suffering.”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey. “I should have been more thoughtful.” He sat down on the stone floor and rubbed his ankle. “Do you have any more candles?”

“I got one more,” said Akira, fishing it out of his pocket. “But it won’t do us no good.”

“I suppose there is no other way out of here?” said Geoffrey, looking up at the dark rectangle of the trapdoor high above them.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” said Akira.

Geoffrey stared at him in amazement.

“But that won’t do us no good neither,” the butcher continued. “There’s a tunnel, but it can only be opened from the outside.”

“Where is it?” said Geoffrey, leaping to his feet and peering around into the gloom as though it might suddenly make itself apparent.

Akira gave a heavy sigh and heaved himself upright. “But it won’t do us no good,” he insisted. “You can’t open it from the inside.”

“But we have to try,” said Geoffrey. “Anything is better than sitting here in the dark waiting to die.”

Akira grumbled his way into a dark corner and poked about. “That bloody Maria! She sold me out, she did. It was her who told that blond knight about this place, knowing that we couldn’t get out once we were down here. Bloody Maria! I suppose you don’t have friends what might come for you?” he asked Geoffrey, suddenly hopeful. His optimism faded as quickly as it had risen. “No. Your fine friends are the ones that shoved us down here in the first place, and old Akira hasn’t had no friends since poor Joseph was took. And poor Joseph couldn’t have done much, him being a cat.”

Geoffrey picked his way through the bones on the floor. “Did you have a daughter called Katrina?” he asked.

Akira turned round to glare at him. “No, I did not, thank God! One bloody daughter is more than enough for poor Akira.” He gave an enormous, wet sniff, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and continued to prod. “Here we are.” He pulled at a large ring set in a second trapdoor and revealed a narrow tunnel disappearing into a sinister slit of blackness.

Geoffrey regarded it in horror. “Is that it?” he asked in a whisper.

Akira nodded. “I suppose we could try it,” he said listlessly. “But it’s a bit of a tight squeeze for old Akira these days.”

Geoffrey looked from the great stone room to the narrow tunnel, and felt as though he were being offered a choice between two alternative routes to hell. He swallowed and took the candle from Akira with trembling hands.

“How far is it?”

“Not far, or bloody miles, depending,” said Akira, taking the candle back again. “Follow me.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair as Akira’s bulky form disappeared sideways into the narrow slit. If it were possible, this was even worse than the journey with Melisende, since the light was dimmer, and the tunnel horribly narrow from the outset. For a moment, he could not force his legs to move, but then the cellar grew darker and darker as Akira’s candle went further into the tunnel, and he entered at a run.

The tunnel was a split in the rock and was a natural, rather than a man-made, feature. Geoffrey began to wonder how safe it was, and felt sweat coursing down his back and face as he envisaged the walls suddenly caving in from the pressure of the mass of rock above. Akira’s grunts and mutters ahead told Geoffrey that the butcher was having problems easing himself along, and Geoffrey began to feel sick. He clenched his hands into tight fists and drove everything from his mind except Akira’s golden wavering light ahead.

Geoffrey had no idea how long they travelled. The split grew wider, but just when he allowed himself to feel relief, it closed in again, even tighter than before. He and Akira had moments when they became stuck, and one had to help prise the other forward. Geoffrey’s shirt was drenched in sweat, and his legs would not have held him up if it were not for the fact that the walls pressed so closely against his back and chest. Just when he thought it could grow no worse, the candle went out.

The silence was absolute.

“Light the other one,” he said in a voice that had an edge of panic to it.

“Can’t,” said Akira. “Didn’t bring the tinder with me.”

Geoffrey felt like strangling him, but he had lost the strength in his limbs, and knew his arms were far beyond doing anything so useful.

“No matter,” said Akira. “I knows where this tunnel goes.” He moved forward, and then Geoffrey could only hear the sounds of his own ragged breathing and his thudding heart.

“Akira!” he yelled. “Tell me about Maria! Tell me about your cat!”

“What?” came Akira’s startled voice from the blackness. “What for? You afraid of the dark or something? Why would a knight be interested in old Akira’s cat?”

Akira’s voice droned on, and Geoffrey followed it gratefully along the narrow split. He lost track of time completely: he might have been in the tunnel for a matter of moments, or for hours. Each step forward seemed to take an eternity, and he tried not to let himself think that if they could not open the other exit from the inside as Akira claimed, then they might have to make their way back along the tunnel to the cellar again.

Just as Geoffrey was slipping into semiconsciousness, where all he was aware of were Akira’s mindless monologue and the laborious process of putting one foot in front of the other, Akira stopped.

“Here it is,” he announced. “There’s steps here, so watch out.”

Geoffrey edged forward carefully, feeling the walls widen suddenly so that he could put his hands out in all directions and feel nothing. Then he was tumbling down the steps, a helpless jumble of arms and legs, and landed in a heap next to Akira.

“Clumsy devil,” muttered Akira. “Told you to watch out. Here’s the entrance.”

It took a moment for Geoffrey to register that he could see Akira’s dim shadow poking around. At first he thought it must be the effects of banging his head when he fell down the steps, but he blinked hard and found he could still see. Unlike the trapdoor in the cellar, this door allowed the tiniest sliver of light to percolate through. He heaved himself upright and looked at it. It was made of wood, and sturdy, and light was seeping in along its bottom. And if light could come in, then so could air, and at least he would not die of slow suffocation in the cellar.

“Where does this come out?” he asked Akira, calmer now that he knew the outside was almost within his grasp.

“A garden,” said Akira. “It used to belong to a cloth merchant, but now some knight owns it, and he don’t like old Akira using this door. He blocked it off with some stones so I can’t get it open.”

Geoffrey put his shoulder to the door and pushed with all his might. Nothing happened. He took hold of a ring that acted as a door handle, and pulled. The door remained fast. Taking a deep breath, he grasped the ring a second time, braced his foot against the doorjamb, and pulled with every ounce of his strength. He felt the blood pounding in his ears, and the muscles stretching nastily in his arms, but still he hauled. Then there was a resounding rip, and he went crashing backward, the ring still in his hand.

“You must be strong,” said Akira with admiration. “You ripped the ring right out of the door. Of course, it don’t help us none.” He gave another wet sniff, wiped his nose against his shoulder, and sat down next to the disconsolate Geoffrey. “Told you it don’t open from the inside,” he said.

“Is there a house nearby?” asked Geoffrey, rubbing the base of his spine, where he had fallen. “If we shout, will anyone hear?”

“Oh, they’ll hear all right,” said Akira morosely. “But it won’t do us no good.”

“Must you keep saying that?” cried Geoffrey in exasperation. “Why will shouting not help?”

“Because the knight what lives there is called Sir Armand of Laon. And he’s a good friend of that skinny, fair-haired knight what threw us down here in the first place.”

Akira wanted to return to the more spacious cellar, but Geoffrey refused to budge from the sliver of light and hot breath of fresh air that occasionally oozed underneath the door. The knight lay flat on his stomach, but could see nothing except some brownish weeds. Akira had told him that the garden was fairly large, and the chances of anyone hearing shouts for help from the road were remote. And even if they did, no one was likely to investigate cries coming from the garden of as powerful a knight as Armand of Laon. Geoffrey lay on the chill stone floor and watched the light fade from under the door.

He did not think he was likely to fall asleep, but he did, exhausted by the events and tensions of the last few days. He awoke cold, stiff, and disoriented in total darkness. He was immediately seized by panic, and leapt to his feet struggling for breath. Akira, who was kicked awake in the process, grumbled in protest.

“Quiet!”

It did not sound like Akira’s voice, and Akira went obligingly silent. Geoffrey leaned against the wall, trying to bring his breathing under control, and heard the scrape of stone on wood. Someone was moving the rocks from the door! He wanted to cry out in relief, but how could he know it was not Armand coming to finish him off quietly under cover of darkness? But that was ridiculous! Armand had no need to do anything so risky, when all he had to do was wait patiently for a few days.

The sound came again, accompanied by a grunt in a familiar voice. Roger! Geoffrey pressed further back against the wall, wondering what was happening now. He was unarmed, having been made to drop his dagger and sword in Akira’s shop; there was no way he could best Roger in an unarmed fight at any time, but especially now when his limbs felt like jelly and he was gasping for breath like a landed fish.

Then the door was thrown open, and the sweet, warm air of Armand’s garden wafted into the tunnel. Geoffrey saw Roger’s great bulk silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky, and tensed himself.

“Geoff? Are you there, lad? It is me, Roger!” He took a step inside. “Geoffrey!” he called urgently.

“I’m here,” came Akira’s ingratiating voice from near Roger’s knees.

“Where is Geoffrey?” demanded Roger, reaching down and hauling Akira to his feet with a fistful of his grimy tunic. “If you have done anything to him, I will kill you!”

“There he is!” came another familiar voice, accompanied by a pointing finger. Melisende! Geoffrey saw Roger peer into the darkness, and then felt his arm grabbed as he was dragged outside.

Geoffrey was unresisting, wondering what was to happen next.

“Here you are, lad,” said Roger, thrusting a water bag at him. “Now, take some deep breaths. Are you all right? If that foul butcher has harmed you, I will tear him into little pieces …”

“I didn’t do nothing to him!” protested Akira. “He’s scarcely said a word to me the whole time we’ve been here, regardless of the fact that I’ve been telling him everything about me!”

“I am sure he has been right entertained,” said Roger dryly.

“You are making too much noise!” whispered Melisende urgently. She turned to Geoffrey. “Drink some water. You will feel better in a moment.”

“We do not have much time,” said Roger, glancing up at the sky. “Geoff? Look lively! We have work to do!”

Geoffrey sipped at the water, staring up at the speckle of stars in the lightening sky, wondering if he were dreaming. He took a deep breath, then another, and felt the strength returning to his limbs. This process was speeded along by a sudden and unexpected thump on the back by Roger, which brought tears to his eyes.

“Come on, lad, pull yourself together!” hissed Roger urgently.

“I don’t understand,” said Geoffrey, confused. “Why are you not off with Hugh?”

“How else would we have escaped?” whispered Roger. “I thought they meant to run us through there and then, and my sole object was to get a sword to protect us. Did you not understand the message I shouted to you?”

“See you in hell?” queried Geoffrey, his mind working sluggishly.

“Yes!” said Roger. “I thought you would work that out, you being so learned and all. You told me once that your vision of hell was being lost in deep airless tunnels. So, I shouted that I would see you in one, to let you know I would come for you. You did not understand?” He looked crestfallen.

“It was rather obscure,” said Geoffrey, weakly. He supposed he might have grasped Roger’s hidden message had he been anywhere but a cave, since he found caves were the last places in which he could think clearly.

“Well, I could not exactly shout ‘Hang on, lad, I will be back for you later,’ could I?” said Roger, somewhat belligerently. “I intended to come before now, but it has been chaotic at the citadel. Hugh has had all his men mount up and head out-he says for a desert patrol, but he means to kill the Advocate. He has scarcely let me out of his sight, since I think he was suspicious of the way I abandoned you at Akira’s. But as they rode out, I was able to slip away. I really did come as soon as I could,” he said gently, patting Geoffrey’s arm in a rough gesture of affection.

Geoffrey looked into Roger’s blunt, honest features peering down at him in concern, and wondered how he could have been so utterly wrong about his friends. Melisende stood to one side, watching him anxiously. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes and took another deep breath.

“But how did you know to come here?” he asked, gesturing at the garden.

“Hugh levered the ring-pull out of the trapdoor in Akira’s shop,” said Roger, grudgingly admiring. “Cunning devil knew that no one would ever prise that great block of stone up without it. But while I was waiting for you to come back to Mistress Melisende’s home yesterday, Maria and I had a long time for chatting. She told me that Hugh and Adam had hauled Pius’s body along some tunnel to dump it in Akira’s house, while she went to open the trapdoor in the cellar. But she refused to tell me where the tunnel came out. As soon as I could get away from Hugh, I went to see if Mistress Melisende here might know.”

Melisende gave a shrug. “Fortunately, Maria had mentioned it to me once, when she told me some story of how she had escaped from the cellar after Akira had locked her in. I came with Sir Roger to make sure he found the right garden.” She smiled at Geoffrey, who forced himself to smile back.

“That Maria!” began Akira, with a shake of his greasy head. “But we shouldn’t hang around here. That Armand don’t like Akira in his garden.”

“Armand has gone with the rest,” said Roger, “but you are right-we have no time to waste. Follow me.”

Geoffrey, Melisende, and Akira fell in behind Roger, who led them around the edge of the garden to a tree next to the wall. He scaled it quickly and prepared to drop over the other side.

“Here! Wait a minute,” squeaked the butcher. “Akira can’t get up that!”

While Geoffrey pushed from underneath and Roger heaved from above, Akira disappeared over the wall in a cacophony of curses and groans. Melisende was up the tree like a monkey, hauling up her skirts to reveal strong, white legs. Geoffrey followed them over and saw he was in the street next to the one where Akira had his shop.

“Is this as far as that tunnel went?” asked Geoffrey in bewilderment. “It felt as though we were virtually outside the city walls.”

“I told you it wasn’t far,” said Akira with a sloppy sniff. “And I told you it could be miles, depending on how you takes to that sort of thing. You took to it worse than anyone I’ve ever brought there-you probably expected to come out in Normandy!”

He gave a guttural chuckle and scuttled away into the night. After a moment, he came back.

“Where shall I go?” he asked, helplessly. “That Maria is still at large, and that Adam might come back to get me.”

“Maria is locked up at the citadel, and Adam has gone with Hugh,” said Roger. “You will be safe at home, Akira.”

Akira gave him a grin revealing some impressively worn teeth. “Akira likes you,” he said to the large knight. “You ever need a nice bit o’ lean meat, you know where to come.”

He slithered away into the darkness a second time.

“Well, he likes me. That is a relief,” said Roger, watching the hunched shape disappear down the shadowy street.

“You had better send word to Uncle Daimbert,” said Geoffrey to Melisende. “Tell him that Hugh plans to kill the Advocate, and that we will try to stop him.”

“Are you sure that is the best course of action?” asked Melisende. “It might be better for the city to have a change in leadership. Everyone is discontented with the Advocate because he is so weak, and as long as he is in power, the city remains vulnerable to attack from the Saracens. Think about how the Crusaders slaughtered the Arabs when the city fell. If the Saracens attacked us now, there would be no quarter for any Christian in Jerusalem-man, woman, or child.”

That was certainly true, thought Geoffrey. The shock and outrage at the bloody massacre of innocent Arab citizens by Christians a year before would be avenged ruthlessly by the Saracens. If the city fell, there would not be a Christian left alive to tell the story.

“Your friend-Sir Hugh-is not to be trusted, obviously, but he is right on this count,” Melisende continued. “We need a strong leader to rule.”

“But Hugh is talking about murder,” objected Geoffrey. “And he says he will put Bohemond on the throne, but Bohemond is away in the north-he is not here to take advantage of the vacant crown. Neither is your uncle, who is also away from Jerusalem. Nor even is Tancred. The Saracens will not hesitate to attack the city if they know it does not have a leader. The murder of the Advocate could well bring about the very massacre you hope to avoid.”

She studied him intently, a slight frown on her face, and then shrugged. “You could be right,” she said eventually. She gave him a wry grin. “As usual. Uncle left for Haifa yesterday morning. I will send word to him and to Tancred too. But in the meantime, will you hunt this Hugh down?” Geoffrey nodded. “Then be careful.” She leaned toward him, gave him a furtive kiss on the cheek, and was gone into the night, heading for the Patriarch’s Palace.

“You are in with a chance there, lad,” said Roger, beginning to stride toward the citadel. Geoffrey fell into step next to him, his strength and composure returning in leaps and bounds.

“That is twice you have saved my life in as many days,” he said to the burly Englishman.

“You have done the same for me in the past,” said Roger comfortably.

“Oh God!” said Geoffrey as they walked. “What a mess! I doubted you. And I could not have been more wrong.”

“Aye, lad,” said Roger. “I sensed something was up when we went to Abdul’s together. But even with doubts about my innocence, you still got me out of that mess with Eveline. I bear you no ill feelings for suspecting me of being the killer.”

Roger’s easy forgiveness made Geoffrey cringe with guilt.

“That business with Eveline was probably Hugh’s doing, too,” said Roger, when Geoffrey did not reply.

“No,” said Geoffrey. “That had to be Courrances. He had probably come to believe that one, or all, of us three was responsible for the murders, and he wanted us out of the way. He planned that you should be found fast asleep with a dead whore by your side, while I was to be killed during the riot. Had Hugh been with us, doubtless there would have been something arranged for him too. But I know you. You do not usually fall asleep on your whores-especially after paying for them. As we left the room through the window, some wine spilled on my sleeve, and there was some kind of white powder in it. I am fairly sure it was drugged, which also explains why you were sick and pathetic when we dealt with Eveline’s body. And it was peculiar that a fight should break out so unexpectedly. The knights in the lower room were quiet when we arrived. I think it was started deliberately by Courrances and d’Aumale.”

“I saw d’Aumale at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace,” said Roger, “but not Courrances.”

“Yes, you did,” said Geoffrey. “Running to lock me in the burning stable.”

“But how could they know we would be there?” asked Roger. “It is not as if we have a regular visiting time. How could they plan so quickly?”

“Because Hugh probably told Courrances what we were doing,” said Geoffrey. “And he could have worked it out anyway. We knew Warner and d’Aumale were at Abdul’s the night Marius was killed, because Warner admitted as much to us in the chapel. Courrances would guess we would want to check their alibis and so would pay a visit to Abdul.”

“But why did Courrances want us out of the way all of a sudden?”

“Because he, like us, has concluded that the person behind these killings was a knight at the citadel. Not an Arab, as he kept insisting. Not the Greeks. Not the Jews. I have no idea what his evidence might be, but he must have narrowed down his list of suspects to you and me. And perhaps to Hugh too. I suppose he considered the murder of Marius in my chamber to be the most vital clue, and went from there.”

“When I was waiting for you at Melisende’s house, I did a lot of thinking,” said Roger. “I just assumed the business at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace was Hugh’s doing. It was obvious you were getting close, and then he would have no choice but to get you out of the way. And me too.”

“And we told him our findings every step of the way,” said Geoffrey bitterly. “As long as we kept talking to him, he knew he had nothing to fear. He would probably far rather we were investigating, telling him exactly what we had discovered, than any of the Patriarch’s scribes.”

They walked in silence for a while, Geoffrey still breathing deeply, forcing the memory of Akira’s tunnel from his mind.

“Now that Hugh has fled,” said Geoffrey, thinking about the slender Norman’s emptied chest, “the Advocate will be safe as long as he remains in the citadel. Even all Hugh’s soldiers will not be able to attack him successfully if he stays within the castle walls. So, why are we rushing to apprehend Hugh now?”

“But the Advocate is not in the citadel!” said Roger, turning to look at him in sudden concern. “He left for Jaffa while you were out chasing Saracens. And Hugh means to kill him as he and his retinue travel back to Jerusalem.”