Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER TWELVE

At the citadel, all was in chaos after the hurried departure of Hugh and his men. Geoffrey winced when he recalled how Hugh had drilled his soldiers rigorously, while most of the knights let sword drill and archery practice slip. Hugh had apparently decided to take the fate of the Holy Land into his own hands months before the murders had occurred. And Geoffrey’s investigation had forced him into action before he was ready, since it would have been better for him to have had Bohemond waiting in the wings, rather than far away in Antioch. But it had probably taken little organisation: his troops were ready, and the empty chest in his room suggested he had been packed and ready to act for some time.

Geoffrey called for Helbye, and ordered him to prepare his men and Roger’s for immediate pursuit of Hugh’s cavalcade. The bailey erupted into activity once more, and several knights, intrigued by the second spurt of activity, came to see what was going on. Some were Bohemond’s men, and friends of Roger. When Roger explained what had happened, they shouted orders to their own men to make ready, for everyone knew a vacant throne would do Bohemond no good at all when he was not there to take it.

“I suppose we should talk to Maria before we go,” said Geoffrey, as he and Roger ran to their own chambers to don full armour and grab as many weapons as they could realistically carry. “She might be able to fill in some details about this vile business.”

“I left her in the care of Tom Wolfram and Ned Fletcher,” said Roger. “I had a feeling Hugh might try to visit her too, so I told them to let no one see her but me. You know Fletcher-he will take that quite literally, and Hugh will not get past him.”

Still buckling his padded surcoat over his chain mail, Geoffrey strode across the bailey, followed closely by Roger, to the low arch beyond which a narrow flight of steps led to the citadel prison. When he saw the gloomy opening and the rock-hewn walls, he was horribly reminded of the tunnels under the city, and almost turned back. But Roger pressing behind him, and the knowledge that the prison comprised three well-lit and reasonably large rooms, gave him the courage to enter.

The cells were relatively empty and totally silent. Geoffrey was wary. The cells were seldom silent. They were not only used for criminals from the city, but for soldiers who transgressed the Advocate’s few, but rigidly enforced, rules. There were some soldiers there now, standing together in a soundless huddle in the furthest cell.

“They left with the first cavalcade,” one called, peering at them through the bars on the door. “You might yet catch them if you hurry.”

“God’s teeth!” swore Geoffrey, staring in horror at the body of Ned Fletcher. He glanced into the cell and saw that Maria was dead too, her head twisted at an impossible angle and her pretty face marred by glassy eyes and gaping mouth. Around her neck glittered the cheap metal locket that Daimbert had given Roger, and that Roger had exchanged for a night of pleasure with the unfortunate Eveline.

Roger took a hissing breath and turned to the prisoners.

“You might still catch them,” urged one of them.

“Them?” asked Geoffrey, his shock turning to a cold anger. Ned Fletcher had been from his home manor of Goodrich, and he had grown fond of the sturdy, reliable soldier over the years.

“Sir Hugh and Tom Wolfram,” the prisoner replied. “He stabbed Ned, and then went in and broke that lass’s neck. She screamed at him to let her live, but he had no mercy!”

“Who was it?” demanded Geoffrey. “Which of them killed Ned?”

“Tom Wolfram!” chorused the soldiers in exasperation. One of them continued. “Then Sir Hugh came in, saw what Wolfram had done, and started going mad. He yelled and shouted at Wolfram that he was a fool. Then he and Wolfram were off.”

“This is my fault!” said Roger bitterly, turning to Geoffrey. “If I had thought more carefully, I would have guessed that Maria would never be safe here-although she did not seem overly concerned when I arrested her. She probably believed Hugh would rescue her. If I had been more cautious, she and Ned would still be alive!”

“I doubt it,” said Geoffrey with quiet fury, giving vent to his own anger and frustration. “Hugh is not the only traitor here it seems. Wolfram too is guilty. Maria was doomed the instant she stepped into the citadel.”

“Wolfram!” said Roger, his voice hoarse with the shock of it all. “And how has he come to be involved?”

“The same way as the others,” said Geoffrey angrily. “Seduced by the promise of rewards beyond his wildest dreams. Or perhaps I drove him to it by my insistence that he wear his chain mail! Who knows?” He slammed one mailed fist into the other. “But I should have guessed! It was Wolfram who told me to go to see Barlow when the lad was drunk. I thought then that you had seized the opportunity to kill Marius, but the incident afforded Wolfram the opportunity to buy time to tell Hugh that we were back. Perhaps it was even Hugh’s idea, so that I would begin to suspect you.”

“Sir Hugh was yelling at Tom Wolfram that the woman could still have been useful,” called the prisoner helpfully. “But Wolfram said it was because Maria had been captured that they were forced to act sooner than they wanted. What did he mean?”

“Can you ride?” asked Geoffrey. All but one of the soldiers nodded. “Then come with me, and you will find out.”

As Roger fumbled with the keys to release them, Geoffrey knelt next to Ned Fletcher and eased his twisted limbs into a more decent position. He took a last look at the man who had been with him since his youth, and stood abruptly, anger seething inside him. Roger followed him up the stairs and waylaid a monk to see about removing the bodies to the chapel.

“We will get Hugh for this, lad,” said Roger, pulling on his gauntlets. Geoffrey nodded wordlessly and surveyed the flurry of activity in the bailey. He had perhaps fifteen knights and about thirty soldiers, hurriedly rounded up from the camp within the citadel walls. Only those who could ride had been chosen, because the little cavalcade would never catch up with Hugh with foot soldiers trailing behind. Geoffrey nodded with satisfaction when he saw that his three best archers were among the numbers.

He strode over to his own horse, already saddled and with his spare sword and mace strapped to its sides. He yelled to Helbye to check that all the water bags were full, since he was not going to ride after Hugh only to be thwarted by the intense heat of the desert-even if the men could be made to go short, the horses could not if they were to be of any use. As he swung himself up into the saddle, Courrances and four of his Hospitallers rode through the gates. With them was d’Aumale.

Courrances surveyed the scene in astonishment. “Another foray into the desert?” he queried. “Two within a day, and with such a show of force?”

Roger said nothing, and Geoffrey wondered whether Courrances were a part of Hugh’s plan to kill the Advocate. But if the Advocate died, then Courrances would lose the power he had so carefully amassed. Geoffrey was debating how truthful to be, when d’Aumale spoke up.

“There have been a number of threats to the Advocate’s life,” he said. Courrances shot him a foul look, but d’Aumale went on. “He read me a letter from some monk outlining details of a plan to kill him. Is that what this is about?”

“D’Aumale!” shouted Geoffrey, exasperated. “Why did you not tell me this earlier? Much time might have been saved, and Ned Fletcher might not be dead!”

“Because I have only just been told you have been investigating these murders on behalf of the Advocate,” said d’Aumale with a disgusted look at Courrances. “Warner and I were under the impression you were doing Tancred’s bidding. And since, under the right circumstances, Tancred might benefit very greatly from the Advocate’s death, we did not think to confide in you! Had we known, we would most certainly have told you about this monk’s letter.”

“This monk was Sir Guido of Rimini,” said Geoffrey, exasperated. “He signed himself Brother Salvatori because he was planning to take the cowl.”

D’Aumale blanched and glowered at Courrances again. “Why did you not tell us sooner that Sir Geoffrey was working for the Advocate? We might have joined forces and averted all this!”

“Joining forces would not have been wise,” came Courances’s oily voice. “And you should not be speaking with him now. Geoffrey Mappestone is Tancred’s man. How do you know it is not Tancred’s agents who are plotting to kill the Advocate, so that Tancred might be ruler of Jerusalem? Or Bohemond,” he added with a glance at Roger.

Roger bristled. “Lord Bohemond would not stoop to such depths,” he declared, although everyone, including Roger, knew perfectly well that he would. Bohemond stood to gain more than anyone from the Advocate’s demise. And Tancred would benefit too, and the Patriarch, and possibly even the Advocate’s brother Baldwin, away in the Kingdom of Edessa.

“I imagined the Greeks were behind it all,” continued d’Aumale urgently, ignoring Courrances. “Meanwhile, Courrances believed it was a Saracen plot; Warner, who is in the hospital with a fever, thought the plot had to be Bohemond’s or Tancred’s. And then, who should begin asking questions and be seen in curious places-but you two and Sir Hugh.”

“Hugh was never with us,” said Roger. “Geoffrey and me went alone.”

“I saw Sir Hugh several times in the Greek Quarter,” said Courrances. His face became sharp. “He has gone, hasn’t he-to Jaffa? He is on his way to murder the Advocate!”

“The evidence is far from clear,” said Geoffrey, wanting time to think it out. Helbye gave a shout to say that all was ready. Geoffrey took the reins and wheeled his horse round to face the gates, raising his arm to order his men to prepare to leave.

“Wait!” said Courrances. “We are coming with you!”

The four Hospitallers and d’Aumale, like Courrances, were already fully armoured. They prepared to follow.

“Not a chance,” said Geoffrey, pulling on the reins to control his restless horse. “We do not want to be found in compromising positions with dead whores in brothels, or killed in burning stables.”

Courrances blanched. “I was mistaken.”

“You were indeed,” said Geoffrey, standing in his stirrups to cast a professional eye over his troops as they arranged themselves in a thin column, two abreast.

“I drew a conclusion based on the evidence presented. I was wrong to have accepted it so readily,” said Courrances, lunging and grabbing Geoffrey’s surcoat. “Several days ago, while you were in the desert, Hugh told me that he was concerned that you were involved in something that might prove detrimental to the Advocate. He told me you were working in league with the Patriarch. I made enquiries and found it to be true-both you and Roger are in the pay of the Patriarch. Hugh was plausible-acting as a grieving friend who was deeply shocked at a betrayal of loyalties. I took him at face value and arranged the business at Abdul’s when he told me you were planning to go there. As it turned out, the entire thing was a fiasco, and d’Aumale could have been killed when he was knocked down by one of the horses you let out, which was racing down the street. I have apologised to him, and now I apologise to you. But Hugh duped me every bit as much as he did you.”

“Not quite,” muttered Geoffrey bitterly. “And was it you who left the dagger and pig’s heart in my chamber?”

Courrances nodded. “I had to make you feel as though it was in your own interests to investigate the murders for me. Had you declined to take up the case, I had planned to leave similar items in the rooms of Roger and Hugh. But you agreed-far more readily than I had expected-so readily, in fact, that I became suspicious, and began to entertain the notion that you were the killer. After all, no one was murdered in the two weeks you were out on desert patrol. Then the minute you step back in the city, John was killed. And then Hugh came, and told me his reasons for suspecting you …”

His voice trailed off. “But a pig’s heart?” said Roger, with a shake of his great head.

Courrances shrugged and then gave a rare smile. “To begin with, I thought all this was the work of Moslem fanatics. I left a pig’s heart to point you in their direction, since the pig is considered unclean by them.” He saw Geoffrey’s bemused expression. “Too obscure, I see.”

Geoffrey’s men were ready, and the horses, sensing the excitement, were restless and prancing. The bailey was filled with low clouds of dust kicked up by their hooves, and already Geoffrey was beginning to bake inside his armour. He donned his metal helmet, with the long nosepiece, and signalled for the men to begin filing out.

“We must come with you!” Courrances insisted, watching the mounted soldiers ride past. “I saw Hugh’s force when it left earlier. He has at least twice the men that you have. You need us!”

Geoffrey made a quick decision; it was in Courrances’s interest to save the Advocate, and the Hospitaller was right in that Hugh probably had a considerably larger force than had Geoffrey. The addition of Courrances, his Hospitallers, and d’Aumale would provide much-needed reinforcements to his small army.

“Come on, then!” he yelled, clinging with his knees as his horse reared, impatient with the delay.

Roger looked at him aghast. “What are you doing? We do not want Hospitallers with us!”

“First, it is better to have Courrances where we can see him,” said Geoffrey in a low voice, watching the warrior-monk run to his own mount and give terse orders to his men. “And second, we are going to need all the help we can get. If Hugh succeeds, Bohemond will be held responsible whether Hugh is acting on his orders or not. And I suspect he is not, because Bohemond is too far away to take advantage of an empty throne if Hugh strikes now. If Hugh murders the Advocate, we will need to combine all our forces to prevent the city from plunging into civil war. And if we fight among ourselves, the Saracens will be on us in an instant. Believe me, Roger, we need Courrances just as much as he needs us.”

The horsemen thundered down the winding path that led down through the Judean Hills to the coastal plain and Jaffa, a prosperous city that was some thirty miles distant as the crow flew. The predominant colour of the countryside around Jerusalem was a pale buff-yellow, which became deeper when bathed in gold by the setting sun. It was midmorning, but the heat was intense, making the scrubby hills shimmer and shift. Here and there, small desert plants eked a parched existence from the arid soil, providing a meagre diet for the small herds of goats that roamed the area with their Bedouin masters.

Dust rose in choking clouds under the horses’ feet, so that the soldiers not at the front of the cavalcade were blinded by it. Geoffrey felt it mingling with the sweat that ran down his face, and forming gritty layers between skin, chain mail, and surcoat. The dust worked its way into his eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, so that his whole world seemed to comprise nothing but the thud of hooves on baked soil and the bubble of rising grit that engulfed him.

He spurred his horse, so that he rode level with Roger, screwing up his eyes against the glare to squint ahead for any sign of Hugh. They reached a tiny oasis, where gnarled olive trees huddled around a shallow pool of murky water, churned to mud by the feet of the animals that came to drink. Curious Bedouin watched the horsemen from the shade of the trees, and exchanged looks of mystification as to what could be so important as to warrant such frenzied activity in the desert heat. With bemused shrugs, they went back to their storytelling and their gossip.

Beyond the oasis, the path sloped upward and rounded a bend, providing a view of the countryside that stretched like a blanket ahead. Geoffrey reined in, clinging with his knees as his agitated horse reared and kicked. An excited bark from below told him that the dog had followed them, although how the fat, lazy beast had kept up, Geoffrey could not imagine.

“There!” he yelled, pointing.

Far in the distance was another group of horsemen, strung out in a long black line across the yellow floor of the desert. There were, Geoffrey estimated quickly, at least a hundred of them, riding toward Jaffa. Hugh had no reason to suspect that Geoffrey had escaped and raised a counterforce, but he must have missed Roger from his troops, and was making good, but not furious, time on his journey.

Courrances reined in next to him, narrowing his eyes at the distant black dots of Hugh’s army. “A hundred and twenty, I would say,” he said. He looked at Geoffrey’s men. “And we number perhaps fifty.” He looked back at Geoffrey, fixing him with his expressionless pale blue eyes, and spurred his horse after his Hospitallers.

“He is right,” said Roger. “This will be no well-matched battle, Geoff.”

“But Hugh does not know we are coming,” said Geoffrey. “We have the element of surprise.”

“Do not fool yourself,” said Roger. “He knows all right. He has left too many clues behind him for someone not to follow-if not you and me, then Courrances.”

Geoffrey did not answer, and he set off again as fast as he dared without destroying the horses. The main road went steadily west, heading for the ancient settlement of Latrun, before continuing northwest to Ramle and then on to Jaffa. Geoffrey knew this region well, having taken many scouting parties out to scour the desert for Saracen bandits, and he knew that by bearing farther north, he could cut in a straight line across the desert and rejoin the road at the tiny settlement of Ramle. Such a shortcut would serve the dual purpose of slicing several miles from their journey, and of masking their pursuit from Hugh and his men.

He yelled his plan to Roger, who grinned in savage delight. D’Aumale forced his way through the milling soldiers, his face tight with tension.

“If we cut directly across the desert, we might yet intercept Hugh,” Geoffrey explained.

“Then what are you waiting for?” yelled d’Aumale, spurring his horse off in entirely the wrong direction. Geoffrey and Roger exchanged amused glances before kicking their own mounts into action, and the chase was on once more.

The route across the desert was not as easy as that provided by the main road. It was rocky, and deeply scarred with great cracks caused as the land shrank away from the ferocity of the sun’s heat. The soldiers were forced to negotiate steep ravines caused by the winter and spring rains, when great sheets of water fell briefly on the dry land, only to run off it again in churning brown torrents that headed straight for the sea. But despite the rough terrain, they made good time and lost only two of their number due to lame horses. Geoffrey dispatched them back to the citadel to see if reinforcements might be raised. Geoffrey’s dog panted along with them, easily able to maintain the slower pace forced by crossing the open country.

There was a tiny spring, little more than a muddy puddle, that Geoffrey knew, about halfway along their route. He called a halt and ordered men and horses to drink-but sparingly, for he knew the horses would be unable to run with overfull stomachs. Then they were off again, refreshed, and ready for the gruelling second leg of their race across the furnace of the desert.

Geoffrey felt his face burn and his head pound as he became hotter and hotter. Beneath him, his horse began to wheeze from the dust, and the dog, still trotting at his side, had its tongue out so far it was almost scraping the ground. Another rider fell behind as his horse began to limp, and Geoffrey wondered whether, even if they did catch up with Hugh, they would be able to fight him. For fight Hugh would. The sardonic knight had no choice now but to follow the path he had taken to its bitter end. Even if he gave himself up, the Advocate would hang him as a traitor.

Geoffrey forced thought from his mind, and concentrated on guiding his horse around the great lumps of shattered rock that strewed the desert floor, and urging it to leap across the maze of ravines that gouged through the baked earth.

Eventually, after the sun had reached its zenith and was beginning to dip into late afternoon, they saw a thin line of green in the distance, and Geoffrey knew Ramle was in reach. The sun cast shadows across the desert that were growing steadily longer, and there would soon be very little daylight left. Geoffrey urged his men on with shouts of encouragement that made his voice hoarse. But they needed little urging, for they too had seen Ramle on the horizon and sensed battle was imminent.

A dry riverbed cut through the desert toward Ramle, and Geoffrey led his men down into it. The bed was relatively smooth, and so they were able to pick up speed. And there were banks on either side that would shield them from sight, so that Hugh would not see them coming. As they drew nearer to the trees, Geoffrey raised his hand to bring the main body to a halt, and while he and the knights continued to advance at a more sedate pace. Who knew what precautions Hugh might have taken, and the last thing Geoffrey needed was to ride headlong into an ambush. D’Aumale began to speak, but Geoffrey silenced him with a glare, and the gentle pad of hooves and the occasional clink of metal were the only sounds as they rode forward.

They reached the flat-roofed houses on the outskirts of Ramle, which had been their target. The villagers, seeing the advance of heavily armed knights, had already fled into the desert, abandoning homes, belongings, and livestock. Geoffrey saw several of the men take acquisitive looks at the houses, and knew he would be hard-pressed to prevent them from looting later. Not that there would be much to take, for the houses were poor and the livestock scrawny. Even Geoffrey’s dog, infamous killer of the citadel chickens and goats, appeared uninterested and slunk away to find somewhere shady to recover from its exertions.

An old woman, too frail to run with the others, watched their approach with a mixture of resignation and fear. She saw Geoffrey looking at her, and pulled a thin, black shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if she imagined it might protect her from him.

“Greetings, mother!” he called in Arabic. “We mean no harm to you.”

She gaped at him, startled by the curious notion of a Crusader knight speaking her own tongue, albeit falteringly.

“Can you tell me how long it has been since the other soldiers passed this way?”

She recovered herself and came toward him, her toothless jaws working in time with her doddering footsteps.

“No soldiers have passed this way today,” she said when she reached him.

Geoffrey’s hopes soared. “No group of horsemen? More than a hundred of them?”

She shook her head. “No.” She gestured to where the road wound through the grove of olive trees, toward the main settlement of Ramle and then on through the desert to Jaffa and the sea. “You would still see the dust if they had passed recently.”

Geoffrey saw that was probably true. So they were ahead of Hugh! The fair-haired knight and his retinue of traitors must have been making slower time than Geoffrey had imagined, perhaps considering that no force large enough to confront them could be raised so quickly. So now, despite his inferior numbers, Geoffrey had the advantage.

“Thank you, mother. These other men will pass soon and there may be fighting, so one of my soldiers will take you out of harm’s way.”

Quickly, he translated the news to the others. He dispatched Helbye as lookout and began setting up an ambush. Barlow was charged with carrying the old woman away from the village to the shade of the olive grove, much to Courrances’s amazement.

“She is an infidel! We need Barlow here.”

“She is an infidel who has just given us the powerful weapon of surprise,” retorted Geoffrey. “Without her information, we would now be riding to Jaffa with Hugh behind us. Then he would have surprised us. Besides, what I do with my men is none of your business.”

Courrances bit back the reply he would dearly have loved to make, and went to help d’Aumale. Geoffrey’s plan was simple. The road through the houses was narrow, like a gully. When the first of Hugh’s men was almost through the village, Barlow, wrapped in the old woman’s shawl, would drive goats across the road at a prearranged signal from Helbye, who was watching the road from a tree. When Hugh’s soldiers slowed to avoid the blockage, a group led by Roger would attack the rear of the column. As Hugh’s men turned to deal with this, a second unit led by Geoffrey would attack the front. And in all the confusion, Courrances, d’Aumale, and the Hospitallers would harry the middle section trapped in the narrow road, with the aid of Geoffrey’s archers.

The men were well-trained, and it took only a few moments for them to take up their positions. Then all was silent except for the worried bleating of goats and the yapping of a small, ratlike dog. Geoffrey sat on his horse behind the last of the houses in the village, wiping away the sweat that trickled from under his conical helmet. He caught the eye of one of the soldiers from Bristol and smiled encouragingly. The young man tried to smile back, but was clearly frightened and managed only a grimace. Geoffrey appreciated why he was nervous. They were outnumbered more than two to one, and they had no idea of the composition of Hugh’s army. If Hugh had fifty knights, they were doomed, despite Geoffrey’s carefully considered tactics.

Geoffrey took a deep breath of hot desert air and cleared his mind of everything but the battle ahead. Then, faintly at first, but growing louder, he heard the drum of hooves on the road. He strained his ears and concentrated. Hugh’s men were advancing at a steady pace, not the breakneck gallop that Geoffrey had forced across the desert. Good. The slower they went, the greater were the chances of trapping the entire group between the houses, because they would not be as strung out. He risked a glance up the street, and saw the first knight trotting toward him. Then the plan swung into action.

Helbye waved to Barlow, dropped out of his tree, and went racing off to join Roger. Barlow began to move his goats forward, but the creatures scattered and milled about in every direction except the road. Geoffrey’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he watched Barlow’s hopelessly inadequate attempts to control the animals. Barlow waved his arms about in desperation, frightening them, so that they ran in the opposite direction to the one he intended. The first horseman was already halfway through the village, and there was not a goat in sight. Barlow began to shout, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth in exasperation. Hugh’s men would hear Barlow yelling in English and would know he was no Bedouin. Then they would guess there was a trap, and Geoffrey and his men would be unable to hold them.

Hugh’s knight was now two-thirds of the way through the village, his comrades streaming behind him in a nice, tight formation that would have been perfect for Geoffrey’s plan. But Barlow had failed miserably with the goats, which were now moving in a nervous huddle away from the road toward the desert.

Then it happened. In a furious flurry of black and white, Geoffrey’s dog appeared, sharp, yellow teeth bared in anticipation of a goat repast. With terrified bleats, the goats first scattered, and then clashed together in a tight group that wheeled back toward the road. The dog followed, snapping and worrying at their fleeing legs.

The goats hurtled across the road just as the first of Hugh’s men reached the end of the village. It could not have been more perfectly timed. The goats, far more in terror of the ripping jaws that pursued them than of the mounted knights, plunged down the street, cavorting and weaving about the horses’ legs. The first few knights were helpless, hemmed in by a great tide of bleating, dusty bodies. Meanwhile, the dog had felled a victim and was engaging in a vicious battle that caught the interest of Hugh’s men.

One of them, however, was more interested in the dog than in the blood sport. Geoffrey saw puzzlement cross Hugh’s face, and then an appalled understanding as he recognised the animal. At that moment, chaos erupted at the far end of the village. Roger was in action, wheeling his great sword around his head at the hapless soldiers who came within his reach. Some tried to ride further into the village, away from Roger, where the three archers poured a lethal barrage of arrows down into the body of trapped men. The press from behind caused further confusion in the middle of the column, and Courrances and his men entered the affray, emerging from the houses with blood-curdling battle cries.

Hugh gave a great yell and kicked his horse forward, away from the chaos of goats. Several others followed, trying to break free to gallop to the open road ahead. Geoffrey and fifteen men from his small army left their hiding places and tore into the battle.

Hugh saw Geoffrey, and his face dissolved into a mask of hatred and loathing. He wheeled his horse around and drove at Geoffrey, oblivious to everything but the man who was attempting to foil his carefully laid plans. Geoffrey raised his shield to parry the blow, and felt himself all but dislodged from his saddle. Hugh swung again, the impact cleaving a great dent in Geoffrey’s shield. Then Geoffrey jabbed straight-armed at Hugh’s side and heard him grunt with pain.

Another man joined the affray: Wolfram, who had been Geoffrey’s man. Geoffrey had a brief vision of Ned Fletcher and rode at him hard and low, aware that despite all his nagging and encouragement, Wolfram was still not wearing full armour. He caught the young man a hefty blow with his sword; in blocking the well-placed swipe, Wolfram was knocked out of his saddle and fell to the ground.

Geoffrey whirled around as Hugh struck again and again, taking the brunt of the blows on his shield. Geoffrey was stronger by far than the smaller Hugh, whose skills lay in carefully executed swordplay rather than brute strength. But Hugh was fighting like a fool, letting his hatred blind him into exhausting himself before the fight had really begun.

But Hugh had not survived numerous battles while on Crusade by being stupid, and his innate sense of survival forced him to regain control of his temper. With a final lunge, he wheeled away and regarded Geoffrey from a distance. Hugh and Geoffrey knew each other well and had matched their fighting skills against each other many times in sport. Hugh was quick and cunning; Geoffrey was strong and intelligent. In their mock battles, Geoffrey imagined that they shared a more or less equal number of victories. His own success against Hugh now was far from secure.

In the brief respite, he felt a searing pain in his leg and looked down to see Wolfram at his side, armed with a dagger. Impatiently, Geoffrey kicked him away as hard as he could, and with a yell, rode at Hugh, using his superior strength to drive him backward, hoping to force him off balance. Hugh took the blows on his shield, reeling in his saddle at their force. Then he kicked out suddenly with his foot, catching Geoffrey’s horse with a stunning kick in the throat. The horse reared in pain and terror, forcing Geoffrey to use his sword arm to control it. While Geoffrey tried to calm his bucking mount, Hugh attacked with a series of quick jabbing thrusts, at least one of which pierced Geoffrey’s chain mail, sending a dull aching sensation through him. Geoffrey tore his horse’s head around and forced it away. Hugh followed.

Geoffrey sensed Hugh’s raised sword behind him, poised to strike at his back-like poor John of Sourdeval and the scribe Marius, Geoffrey thought suddenly, attacked from behind-and he whirled around in his saddle, raising his shield and swinging his own sword at the same time. It was not a wise manoeuvre, placing him awkwardly in the saddle, and without lending any real strength to his sword arm. But it was also not a manoeuvre Hugh anticipated, and his shield went skittering from his grasp. He recovered quickly and swung at Geoffrey, sitting unsteadily in his saddle, with a violent swing that took both of his hands. Geoffrey raised his shield, but the force of the blow unseated him, and he went tumbling to the ground, his helmet flying from his head.

He scrabbled to his feet as Hugh drove his horse forward, trying to trample him under its hooves. Geoffrey ducked and dodged, and escaped by the skin of his teeth at the expense of a painful kick on his leg. He gripped his sword and turned to face Hugh. Hugh now had the considerable advantage of height, and he rode at Geoffrey wheeling his sword like a windmill. Geoffrey dropped to the ground and scrambled away, feeling the whistle of the sword the merest fraction away from his bare head. He climbed to his feet again and considered running away. But then Hugh would break away from the melee and ride for Jaffa to kill the Advocate, and everything Geoffrey had worked for would have been for nothing.

Meanwhile, Wolfram had recovered and was also advancing on Geoffrey with sword drawn. Geoffrey looked from Wolfram to Hugh, trying to ascertain who would attack him first. Geoffrey spun round and raced at Wolfram, forcing the young man to retreat rapidly to avoid being hacked to pieces by Geoffrey’s expertly wielded weapon. Wolfram would know he could never beat Geoffrey in such a confrontation, but Wolfram had Hugh. Hugh spurred his horse forward a second time, driving the terrified beast to where Geoffrey sparred with the young soldier. At the very last moment, Geoffrey threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his hands. One of the horse’s hooves smashed into his thigh, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Yelling with savage delight, Wolfram dived at him, while Hugh brought his horse in a tight circle to bear down on them again. Geoffrey was still off-balance, and Wolfram’s graceless lunge knocked him to the ground again. Then Hugh was on them, his sword whirling and slashing, and the hooves thundering into the ground all around them.

Wolfram went limp. Geoffrey struggled out from underneath him and saw that one of Hugh’s wild swipes had cut deeply into the young soldier’s back.

“Should have been wearing your chain mail,” Geoffrey muttered as he rolled the lifeless body away and struggled to his feet yet again. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Hugh. He could see the glitter of Hugh’s eyes under his helmet, and saw that he smiled. As far as Hugh was concerned, this contest was already won: Geoffrey was limping and had lost his helmet. Hugh knew that Geoffrey’s chances of besting a mounted knight of Hugh’s experience and skill were remote. He began to relax.

Geoffrey hurled his sword away and drew his dagger, leaping toward the back of Hugh’s horse where Hugh could not see him. Roaring with fury, Hugh wheeled his horse around in a tight circle. But Geoffrey moved with it, using his dagger to hack and slice at the leather straps that anchored the saddle to the horse’s back. The horse reared in terror and pain, and Hugh fought to control it. A flailing hoof caught Geoffrey a glancing blow on the chin and sent him sprawling. Within moments, Hugh was with him, crashing to the ground with his saddle tangled about his legs.

Now is the time, Geoffrey’s instincts screamed at him, while Hugh struggled to free himself from the saddle and its clinging stirrups. But the blow to his chin had left him dazed, and it was all he could do to climb groggily to his feet. He made a feeble lunge at Hugh with his dagger, but Hugh punched him away and succeeded in freeing himself. When Geoffrey’s vision cleared of the exploding lights that blinded him, he found he had dropped dagger and shield, and faced Hugh unarmed. Eyes glittering, Hugh advanced with his sword and raised his arm for the strike that would rid him of the man who had thwarted all his plans. Geoffrey met his gaze unflinchingly.

The blow never came. Hugh’s expression changed from one of twisted malice to one of surprise, and his sword descended slowly. Behind him stood Roger, and Hugh buckled and fell to the ground. In his back was a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.

“Took a fancy to this when I saw it in his room,” said Roger, bracing a foot against Hugh’s back and retrieving it. He showed it to Geoffrey, turning it in his hands. “Fancy, eh?”

Geoffrey tore his eyes away from the bloody dagger and back to Roger. “Have we succeeded?”

“Aye, lad. Courrances and his monks wreaked havoc in the middle part, and the trapped men trying to escape hindered the fighting at the back and the front. I killed that treacherous Father Almaric-he was wearing chain mail, would you believe, and he had a sword! And I got Maria’s lad, Adam, too, and Courrances killed Armand, among others.” He paused, looking at the bodies strewn across the road in satisfaction. “Those goats worked a treat.”

Only just, thought Geoffrey wearily. He looked around for his dog and saw it gnawing something bloody between its paws. He hoped it was only an animal. He glanced toward the village, and saw Courrances and d’Aumale rounding up the few remaining soldiers in Hugh’s army, and setting them to gather up those who had been killed. It appeared to have been a massacre, and Geoffrey suddenly felt sick.

“It is not as if we have nothing better to do,” he said to a bemused Roger. “This whole land is surrounded by hostile Saracens, and all we can do is kill each other! Perhaps we are not fit to be here at all and should give up our claims to others.”

“Don’t talk daft, lad,” said Roger. He gestured at the slowly growing heap of corpses in the street. “The world is a better place without the likes of them in it.”

On the ground, Hugh gave a soft groan and forced himself onto his back. Geoffrey and Roger exchanged a glance and looked down at him dispassionately. Hugh saw them and smiled.

“I always thought it would be glorious to die in battle with my friends.”

“But you expected to be in battle with your friends, not against them,” said Roger, slightly indignantly. “Besides, we are not dying.”

Hugh’s smile widened, showing teeth that were stained with blood. Geoffrey knelt next to him, repelled by the whole treacherous business.

“Was it worthwhile, Hugh?” asked Geoffrey softly. He gestured to the pile of soldiers’ bodies. “Your men are dead, and you will soon follow them.”

“It was worthwhile,” Hugh responded. “I sent word to Bohemond two weeks ago that I was going to kill the Advocate, and that he should be ready to step forward to claim Jerusalem. Even as we talk, he will be massing his troops in anticipation.”

“But he will find the Advocate alive,” said Geoffrey. “And no one will support Bohemond if he tries to snatch the leadership by force. The Advocate was crowned in the Holy Sepulchre by the Patriarch himself.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh wearily. “But the Advocate is weak, and even his own men are wavering in their loyalty to him. You think you have won because I am dying. But there are others who think like me and it will only be a matter of time before one of them succeeds. And regardless, Bohemond will come soon with a great force, and you two will have no choice but to fight for him.”

“How do you know he will come?” asked Geoffrey. “He might decide he wants no crown won with blood.”

“Oh, that will not bother him,” put in Roger cheerfully. “Bohemond is no lily-livered monk.”

“I sent word to him with a man whom I know will be able to persuade him of his best options,” Hugh whispered. “Sir Guibert of Apulia took my message that Bohemond should prepare himself two weeks ago.”

Geoffrey gazed at him. “Sir Guibert is dead,” he said softly.

Hugh’s eyes grew round with horror, but then he dismissed Geoffrey’s claim. “You lie. Guibert would not fail me or Bohemond.”

“Doubtless not,” said Geoffrey. “But Guibert and his soldiers were attacked by Saracens before they ever reached Bohemond, and were killed to a man. Tancred told me about it in a message he sent from Haifa. He was curious as to why Guibert should be in the desert at all, and thought it sufficiently odd to mention in his letter. Bohemond did not receive your message.”

The colour drained from Hugh’s face, and he closed his eyes.

There was a shout of warning from Helbye, whom Roger had posted to watch the road for any reinforcements that Hugh might have had stashed further away. Roger dashed for his horse, while Geoffrey snatched up Hugh’s sword, anticipating another skirmish. There was no time to arrange a second ambush: they would simply have to do battle as they were.

Helbye strode forward to intercept a small party of soldiers that was riding toward Jerusalem, and Geoffrey watched as the sergeant engaged in a hurried exchange of words. Geoffrey saw Helbye’s jaw drop, and then the sergeant seemed to collect himself. He came racing toward Geoffrey.

“The Advocate!” he gasped. “The Advocate is dead!”

Geoffrey looked from Helbye to the soldiers who had just arrived. One was Sir Conrad of Liege, a knight who Geoffrey knew well, who was one of the Advocate’s staunchest supporters.

“It is true,” said Conrad, fixing Geoffrey with exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. “He died of a fever early this morning.” He looked at Geoffrey and Roger, and then at Courrances and d’Aumale, who had come to see what the commotion was about. “What happens now?”

Geoffrey looked down to where Hugh lay, smiling with the last of his dying strength.

“Was it you?” Geoffrey asked in a whisper. “Did you poison him?”

“You will never know,” replied Hugh, his voice so weak Geoffrey had to kneel to hear him. “You will never know.”