Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER EIGHT

Geoffrey did not want Roger’s company when he went to Abdul’s Pleasure Palace, but Roger had set his heart on going and was not to be deterred. Geoffrey was reluctant to raise objections that were too strong, lest he arouse Roger’s suspicions, and he considered asking Hugh to go too. But Hugh was too fastidious to take his enjoyment from a place like Abdul’s, and Geoffrey decided the less Hugh had to do with the whole affair, the safer he would be. The dog had tried to follow them out, but Geoffrey had shut it in his room, ignoring the outraged howls that issued forth as they left. So Geoffrey and Roger set out together later that night, moving quickly down the silent streets, their swords clanking and their boots stirring up the dust from the baked ground.

Roger was in a buoyant mood and hummed as he walked. He had been to some trouble to render himself more desirable: he had shaved; his hair had been hacked short with a knife; and the rim of greasy dirt that usually encircled his thick neck was almost gone. He wore his best shirt too, under his chain mail, a fine garment of pale blue silk that he had rescued from the corpse of a merchant after the siege of Antioch. There was a crudely mended rent in the back, surrounded by a sinister dark stain, but Roger considered the shirt a fine thing and nearly always wore it when visiting brothels.

Next to him, Geoffrey trudged along laden down with his doubts and fears. The one thing that had been constant during the three-year Crusade to Jerusalem-through intense heat, freezing cold, debilitating diseases, flies, and continuous shortages of food and water-had been his friendship with Roger and Hugh. Now one had tried to kill the other, and Geoffrey was thoroughly sick of the Holy Land and the Crusades, and of the politics that caused a good man like Roger to turn traitor.

Since it was already late, activities at Abdul’s were in full swing. Even from the end of the street, high-pitched squeals of delight, men’s laughter, and the thump of loud music could be heard. Abdul saw Geoffrey and Roger enter, and he hurried over to greet them himself, welcoming Roger, in particular, like an old friend. Roger, eyes darting in all directions at the women who draped themselves across elegant couches or danced provocatively to the sound of drums and rebecs, was off in a trice. Geoffrey was relieved. He did not want to question people about Warner and d’Aumale while Roger listened. He watched Roger weave his way across the room with surprising grace for a man of his size, and then he found a stool at the edge of the room from which he could observe the scene for a while before beginning his enquiries.

Abdul’s establishment comprised a large room on the ground floor, with a maze of small rooms on the upper floor that might be hired for private use. But it was the lower-floor room that boasted the action. A trio of sweating musicians pounded out a cacophony of noise, the rhythm of which was mesmeric. Over the din, men yelled and laughed as they enjoyed the company of the women. Geoffrey remembered Roger’s words about how he preferred women who spoke his own language, and he wondered whether Abdul’s music was deliberately loud so that the knights would not realise the women did not understand a word they said.

Abdul’s Pleasure Palace was exclusively for knights: lesser soldiers, no matter how much booty they might produce, were simply not allowed inside. Abdul employed several hulking men whose strength was reputed to be prodigious, whose dual purpose was to ensure no one was admitted who should not be there and to collect appropriate payment from the knights. There were probably about thirty knights, mainly Normans, in the lower room, and about the same number of women. The women were scantily clad, as women in brothels generally were in Geoffrey’s experience, and the knights wore bizarre combinations of chain mail and undergarments.

Geoffrey sipped wine from a handsome jewelled cup and watched the revellers. He looked for Maria, but she was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Melisende had accepted her back on the condition that she give up her alternative career. A knight lunged drunkenly past and stumbled over Geoffrey’s feet. He struggled to stand, decided it was too much effort, and went to sleep where he lay. Others around the room were in a similar condition, sprawled in chairs with their heads back and mouths open, or face down on the tables. In the morning, most would clearly have only the haziest of memories of their night out, and Geoffrey despaired. How could he possibly expect reliable answers about the whereabouts of Warner and d’Aumale from this crowd? And tonight was a normal one, whereas the evening in question had been a party, doubtless far more rowdy and drunken than it was now.

Abdul slithered up to him, rubbing his oiled hands together and giving a leer with curiously white teeth. Geoffrey wondered if they had been applied with whitewash.

“You look sad, my friend,” Abdul said greasily, his eyes looking anywhere but at Geoffrey. “Perhaps I can bring you someone who might cheer you up?”

“Is Maria d’Accra here?”

Abdul’s expression became predatory. “She might be. But her mother has been ill, and she has seven brothers and sisters to feed and … that should help, thank you sir.” As Abdul did a disappearing trick with the coins, Geoffrey followed him through the tangle of gyrating bodies to the stairs on the other side of the room, ignoring Roger’s indiscreet waves and winks.

Abdul led the way up the stairs and along several narrow corridors, before asking Geoffrey to wait in a small vestibule lined with benches. A few moments later, a young man slunk past, casting resentful eyes at Geoffrey, and Abdul returned, rubbing his hands together like a fly. He beckoned Geoffrey to follow him until he stopped outside a door with a handsome inlay of green marble. As Abdul prepared to open the door, Geoffrey grabbed his arm.

“Were Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale here six nights ago?”

Abdul looked startled; then his eyes narrowed craftily. “Everyone was here that night, Sir Geoffrey,” he said. “But perhaps my memory might be jogged if I were not so concerned about my sick mother …”

“Is there anyone in this Palace without a sick mother?” asked Geoffrey, handing over more coins.

The coins were quickly bitten and secreted away somewhere on Abdul’s oily person. “Warner and d’Aumale were here,” he said.

“All night?”

“They arrived after dark and left in the small hours.”

“When, exactly?”

Abdul spread his hands. “I do not remember. There were probably a hundred knights here then. I cannot recall them all. Sir Warner and Henri d’Aumale were here, and I remember they left after the unfortunate incident with the snake charmer. But I cannot recall the exact time.”

“Perhaps I can talk with this snake charmer? He may remember.”

Abdul looked shifty. “If he did, it is probably the last thing he remembered.” He looked up to the ceiling and crossed himself clumsily, back to front and upside-down.

Geoffrey was obviously going to get no further with this line of enquiry, so he opened the door to Maria’s room and stepped inside. Abdul made to follow him in, but Geoffrey closed the door firmly and hung his gauntlets over the panel in the door through which he was sure Abdul peered. There was a hurt silence, and then footsteps receded down the corridor.

The room was whitewashed and tastefully decorated with blue marble tiles, lending it a clean, cool appearance. Several bottles stood on a low table, near a large bed draped with blue covers. Geoffrey saw no sign of Maria, and sat down on the bed to wait. A few moments later, he was aware that the bed was shaking. He leapt to his feet and hauled the covers away, revealing Maria huddled into a ball and laughing uncontrollably.

He waited while she brought her mirth under control, and wondered at his own surliness. His dreadful suspicions of Roger seemed to have robbed him of his sense of humour. Maria, still giggling, scrambled off the bed and came to stand next to him at the window.

“What is the matter with you?” she demanded playfully. “You usually do not mind a joke.”

“Why are you here?” he countered. “I cannot imagine Mistress Melisende would approve.”

Maria grimaced. “You will not tell her, will you?”

“No. But others might. If the job you have with her is more important to you than what you do here, you should consider your position more carefully.”

“Both are important to me!” pouted Maria.

“I meant financially,” said Geoffrey. “But it is none of my business.” He took her by the hand and led her over to sit next to him on the bed. “I need to ask you some questions about Mistress Melisende. Will you answer them?”

“What questions?” asked Maria suspiciously. “And since when do Norman knights ask so politely when they can simply demand?”

“You sound like your Mistress! I will demand if it makes answering easier for you,” said Geoffrey, with a reluctant smile. “Now. How long have you worked for her?”

Maria raised her hands. “That is easy! Since she arrived here.”

“And when was that?”

“A year ago, when your crowd took the city.”

“A year?” repeated Geoffrey, puzzled. “She came with the Crusaders? I imagined she was in the city when it fell, and that was when she was widowed. She certainly gives the impression that she was here then.”

“Oh no,” said Maria. “She came when you did. She posed as an Italian so that she might travel here with the Crusaders, but she is really a Greek.”

Geoffrey was more puzzled still. “Why would she want to come to a city where Greeks are treated so badly? What happened to her husband?”

Maria’s eyes lit up, and she leaned nearer to him so that she could whisper conspiratorially. “Do you know, I do not think she is a widow at all! I think her husband is alive somewhere. Perhaps he was violent to her, or a criminal! But I think she came on the Crusade to escape him!”

It seemed a rather extreme way to escape, but if a woman were desperate and had the means to make herself a new life at the end of it, Geoffrey supposed it would not be impossible. He wondered what kind of husband would drive the aggressive, self-confident Melisende to such ends, and decided it would be a man he had no wish to encounter.

“She absolutely hates Normans,” Maria went on blithely. “So perhaps he was a Norman. Like you,” she added for his edification, raising her huge brown eyes to look at him. “That must explain why she does not like you.”

“I think I may have managed that all on my own …”

“No! I am right!” exclaimed Maria, clapping her hands together gleefully. “It all makes sense now! That is why she told me to tell her whenever I saw you. I had to note who you were with and what you were doing. And why she asked my sister, Katrina-she works as a kitchen maid in the citadel-to watch you too.”

“Did she?” said Geoffrey, thinking fast. “I wonder why?” It had to be because Melisende was involved in something sinister! Was she Roger’s accomplice? Or he hers? Ends began to come together in his mind. The men who had followed him back from his meeting with Tancred had been speaking Greek-they must have been sent by Melisende to watch his movements, just like Maria and Katrina had been instructed to do. In which case, he had been right in thinking she had some kind of secret. Perhaps she had murdered this monstrous husband of hers, and that was the reason why she had to engage in such a desperate flight. And having attained a taste for killing, she was busy again, murdering priests and knights. It was beginning to fit together. Or was it? Why would Roger be in her employ?

He leaned back and considered, while Maria went to the table and began picking at a plate of nuts. Melisende could be the killer, and Roger, he knew, had killed Marius. But why? And Melisende clearly could not have killed Loukas when she was in custody at the citadel. So did Roger kill the monk for her, to prove her innocence? But somehow Geoffrey could not imagine the blustering Roger stealing into the Holy Sepulchre, and lying in wait for a crippled lay brother to slay. Perhaps he had been waiting to kill someone else, though, a real monk, and had panicked and killed poor Loukas by mistake. That would explain why the murder of Loukas seemed to represent a break in the pattern: a member of the Orthodox Church, rather than a Latin.

“Will you tell Mistress Melisende you met me tonight?” asked Geoffrey, standing and wandering to the window again.

“Well, I would,” said Maria bluntly, “had I met you anywhere else. But if I told her I had seen you, she would pester me with questions, and she would be bound to find out where we met in the end. And then I would lose my job for certain.”

“Do you know a scribe called Dunstan?”

“Dunstan? Oh yes. He often visited Mistress Melisende.”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “In her house? For what purpose?”

I would not know,” said Maria, with a ridiculous air of false innocence. “Buying cakes, I should imagine. Dunstan likes cakes.”

“Did you know he had died?”

“Who? Dunstan?” she asked, startled. She thought for a moment. “He has not been for cakes for more than a week now. But he came irregularly, so we would have no reason to assume any harm had befallen him.”

“There was a box of your cakes in his desk that made my dog very sick.”

“You gave our cakes to your dog? That horrible black-and-white thing? They were probably too rich for it. They are made with the finest ingredients.”

“I think, in Dunstan’s cakes, poison was one of these fine ingredients.”

She looked at him for a moment with her mouth agape, and then went into peals of laughter. “Now you are more your old self! Joking and teasing. I was worried about all this seriousness.”

“I am not jesting with you. Dunstan’s cakes were poisoned.”

The laughter faded from her face. “You are serious!” She swallowed hard. “I make the cakes, and Melisende makes the bread, but I did not poison any of them. Perhaps Dunstan put the poison there himself. Perhaps he planned to make a gift of them to someone he did not like. And then me and Melisende would be blamed for the murders, not him,” she concluded gloomily.

“Do you know of anyone Dunstan might want to poison?”

She shook her head. “He was not a pleasant man. He was always grumbling about someone. I cannot imagine he was popular. But he never mentioned anyone specifically he did not like.”

Geoffrey walked to the table and fiddled restlessly with one of the cups. Even with Maria’s empty-headed information, he was still no closer to establishing a motive. Was it possible Dunstan was visiting Melisende’s house to blackmail her over the business of her mysteriously absent husband, and that she slipped him a box of poisoned cakes as he left? But what blackmailer was likely to accept such a gift from his victim? Perhaps Dunstan did poison them himself, intending to use them for someone else. But whom? And why? Did he intend to give them to Roger? Did Roger know exactly what they were when he stole them from Dunstan’s desk and saw an opportunity to poison Geoffrey-the man who was investigating his crimes? But Roger knew that Geoffrey hated sweet Greek cakes, and would not have eaten any when offered. Roger had been most definitely planning on eating them himself, so perhaps he really had not known that they would have killed him.

Geoffrey was becoming tired. His head throbbed from lack of sleep and the weight of his discoveries, and he longed to be in his own chamber, away from the artificial joviality of the brothel. He turned from the window, made his farewells to Maria, and opened the door. At that moment, there was a particularly loud yell from the carousing knights downstairs, so loud that neither Geoffrey nor Maria heard the thud of the arrow that smashed into the wall where Geoffrey had been standing.

Geoffrey intended to leave Abdul’s Pleasure Palace and let Roger find his own way home. Roger probably had no intention of leaving anyway, not when there was still wine to be downed and women to be accosted. As Geoffrey reached the head of the stairs, he glanced up a corridor that ran at right angles to the one he had just walked down, and paused. Someone was lying there, partly propped up against the wall. Even from that distance, the dull sheen of oil that glistened on the man’s face told Geoffrey that it was Abdul.

He approached cautiously, aware that if Abdul had imbibed too much of his own wine, he might prefer to sleep off his indignities in private. But Geoffrey strongly suspected Abdul was not foolish enough to drink the sour wine he served the knights, and that there was another reason why he should be prone on the floor. Geoffrey glanced around quickly to make sure it was not some kind of trap to catch him unawares, and quickly knelt next to the rotund brothel-keeper.

Abdul stirred when Geoffrey shook his shoulder, and then he groaned softly.

“What happened to you?”

“Jerusalem is not the city it was,” bemoaned Abdul, clutching at a lump on the side of his head, already turning dark with the beginnings of a bruise. “Between you and me, I preferred the Saracens to the Christians. They were not so greedy and not so aggressive.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

Abdul shook his head and tried to struggle to his feet. Geoffrey helped him. “But it is not the first time I have been robbed in my own house. At least I still have this.”

He raised a hand, and in it Geoffrey saw the chain and locket that the Patriarch had given Roger in payment for his spying services. Abdul inspected it carefully in the light from a torch on the wall.

“That villain!” he exclaimed. “This is not even silver! Look! It is nothing but base metal!”

Geoffrey smiled grimly. Perhaps there was justice in the world after all. Roger had been paid for his traitorous services with imitation jewelry, and the scheming Abdul had been duped by his own greed. Abdul grunted and put the necklace in his purse. “I will give this to Maria. She will not know it is of poor quality.”

“Did Roger hit you?”

“Oh lord, no. The attack came from the direction of the back stairs. Sir Roger was already ensconced in a room with Eveline. Eveline is …”

He stopped in midsentence as another tremendous crash came from below, accompanied by shouting. Abdul groaned anew.

“It is not my night, Sir Geoffrey. First I am hit on the head, and now your comrades riot.”

“Do they often riot?” asked Geoffrey as Abdul braced himself to enter the fray.

“They most certainly do,” replied Abdul with resignation. “And from the noise, I see tonight they are in earnest.”

He hurried away, while Geoffrey crouched down to peer at the scene below from the top of the stairs. A table flew past his line of vision, smashing to pieces against a wall. Men ran here and there in various stages of undress, while women screamed. Abdul’s voice rose in a reedy shout above the chaos, appealing for calm, but either the knights did not hear or they did not care. From the rooms upstairs, more knights and women emerged, jostling past Geoffrey to join in the chaos.

Geoffrey had expected Roger to be one of the first to rally to the call, since the big knight was never one to pass up the opportunity for a fight-armed or unarmed or, Geoffrey imagined, clothed or unclothed-but there was no sign of him.

A Lorrainer was weaving down the corridor toward Geoffrey, and took a swing at him as he passed. Geoffrey ducked it with ease and heaved the Lorrainer head over heels down the steps. He saw the tumbling knight knock over two more who were attempting to climb the stairs, and then he headed toward the room that Abdul had said Roger had hired. He knocked softly and called, but there was no reply. He hesitated, wondering whether to abandon Roger and slip away-fights between knights were notoriously violent, and he had no wish to become involved in a brawl that was none of his making.

The shouting from below was growing louder and sounded as though it might be spreading to the street. Geoffrey knew he had to make up his mind quickly, or he would end up fighting whether he liked it or not. He turned the handle, pushed open the door, and gasped in horror.

The room was very much like the one in which he had seen Maria, except that its decor was green not blue. And the covers on the bed were stained a deep crimson.

Two people lay there, and Geoffrey edged forward, his heart thudding. Eveline lay on her back, her eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, while a blossom of blood oozed from a wound in her chest. Next to her, also on his back, was Roger, his mouth agape as he snored lustily, an empty wine goblet in his hand. Geoffrey felt sick. For a moment, all sounds receded, and he was aware only of Roger’s snores and the dead woman on the bed. Then a particularly loud bang from downstairs brought him to his senses. He edged away, but as he moved, Roger opened his eyes, groaned loudly, and called Geoffrey’s name.

Geoffrey froze as Roger lifted his head from the pillow.

“I feel awful,” the burly knight slurred. He raised himself a little higher. “What is happening? What is all that noise?”

“A fight,” said Geoffrey tersely. “I am leaving.”

“Wait for me. God’s blood!”

Geoffrey watched as Roger came face to face with the body of Eveline. The Englishman started violently, and his big brown eyes widened in horror. Slowly, he reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder, as though she might waken if he shook her. Then he snatched his hand away, lurched from the bed, and was violently sick. Geoffrey was impressed. It was quite a performance from a hardened killer.

Eventually, Roger turned to look at Geoffrey, his face ashen.

“What happened?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Who did this to her?”

“It looks very much as though you did,” responded Geoffrey coolly.

“Me?” said Roger. “I barely remember coming here.” He gestured helplessly. “I do not even have my dagger-I left it downstairs as instructed by her. By Eveline.” He looked at the dead woman again, his face a mask of pity.

“Are you saying someone waited until you fell asleep, and then murdered your whore?” asked Geoffrey incredulously.

Roger nodded. “I hope you believe me.” He grinned weakly, but the smile faded as his eyes fell again on Eveline. “Oh God, Geoffrey! Who would do this?” He looked up at Geoffrey, still standing in the door. “You do not believe me, do you?”

He looked so hurt that Geoffrey was cut to the quick. He remembered Abdul, struck by someone coming up the back stairs as he was returning from showing Roger to his room. Was Roger innocent? Could the scenario Geoffrey had outlined with such sarcasm actually have occurred? Eveline had demanded that Roger leave his dagger behind. Was that because she was already nervous about him? Or had she been so instructed by whoever wanted Roger found in these compromising circumstances?

There was shouting in the corridor now. Any moment, someone would burst in and find them. Roger might not have a dagger to implicate him in Eveline’s murder, but Geoffrey certainly did, and he was not going to wait around to be caught in the net that was tightening around Roger.

He went to the window and saw that it overlooked a narrow alleyway. He dashed over to the bed and grabbed Eveline’s arm, gesturing for Roger to take the other one. He did not relish what he was about to do, but the shouts and crashes from outside were coming closer by the moment, and he was running low on ideas.

“Drop her out of the window.”

“What?” Roger was aghast. “Are you insane? Whatever for? That is desecration! You can go to hell for that!”

“Just do it,” grunted Geoffrey, as he struggled to manhandle the limp body to the window alone.

Roger stood in front of him. “I will not let you do this,” he said quietly. “It is not right.”

“Listen,” snapped Geoffrey, pausing in his battle with the whore’s body. “Did you kill her?” Roger shook his head. “Well, you will hang for it unless you take steps to prevent it. We have very little time. I propose we get Eveline out of this room and abandon her on the street somewhere. Then it will be assumed that she died during the fighting. If we leave her here, then Abdul will say, quite truthfully, that you were her last client, and you will be blamed, innocent or otherwise. Eveline is quite dead. Whatever we do now cannot hurt her. Help me drop her out of the window.”

Ashen-faced, Roger complied, turning quickly and covering his face with his meaty hands as a soggy thump came from below. He moved toward a jug of wine that stood on the table, and poured himself a goblet with shaking hands. Geoffrey knocked it away and shoved him toward the window.

“Roger! There is no time for that. Quick! Jump!”

As Roger walked morosely to the window, Geoffrey gathered the bloodstained sheets into a bundle. He noticed wine on his sleeve where it had spilled as he had knocked it from Roger’s hand, and saw that the stain was surrounded by a fine white residue. But there was no time for speculation, and Geoffrey pushed past Roger to throw the covers into the street below. The big knight clambered inelegantly out of the window and let himself fall, and Geoffrey glanced quickly around the room. There was nothing to indicate that a violent death had occurred. Roger had no knife with him, and there was not one in the room. Unless he had had the foresight to hurl it out of the window, there was a possibility that he was telling the truth, and the whole episode was some bizarre plot to land him in a horribly compromising position. But why? Was it Melisende, realising that Roger was a dangerous ally and that she would be safer without him?

There was a heavy thump on the door, and Geoffrey saw the thin wood bow inward. Any moment now, the men outside would enter, and if Roger truly were innocent, then they would know exactly what they would find, and they would pretend to be aghast at the sight that confronted them. Geoffrey considered remaining, so that he could see who burst through the door. But he had visions of Roger being discovered under the window clutching the body of Eveline, and decided against it.

He scrambled onto the windowsill and let himself fall, landing lightly on his feet and rolling to one side. Roger stood immobile, and Geoffrey had to punch him hard on the arm to get him to pick up the body and walk with it, while Geoffrey carried the covers rolled into a ball. They kept to the shadows. He was aware that the door to Roger’s room had been smashed open, and that someone was looking out of the window into the alley below. They did not have much time.

“I will create a diversion,” he whispered. “You must use it to dump Eveline’s body in the road and escape. You must not be seen. Can you do it?”

Roger was grey with shock. He stared dumbly at Geoffrey, who began to wonder if he was capable of doing anything at all.

“Roger! Can you do it?”

“I did not kill her, Geoffrey!”

“I know,” Geoffrey lied. “But we can discuss it later. Now we must act. For Heaven’s sake, man! Pull yourself together! This is not the first time you have encountered violent death.”

“It is the first time I have encountered it in my bed!” muttered Roger. “I feel sick.”

Geoffrey was heartily wishing he had left while he had had the chance. Now, here he was helping a man-of whose innocence he was by no means certain-to escape justice. He looked down the alleyway and wondered if he should run and leave Roger to sort out his own muddle.

“What are you going to do?”

Roger seemed to have pulled himself together somewhat. Geoffrey peered into his face and saw a resolution there that had been missing before. Perhaps Roger would manage after all.

“I am going to set fire to that stable over there …”

“What about the horses?” interrupted Roger in horror. A knight was of no use without his mount, and like all Normans, Roger had a healthy respect for horses.

“They will be fine. When you hear the alarm, dump the body in the road, and go straight to the citadel. You must not wait for me, or you might be caught. Your best chance to escape all this is to be as far away as possible.”

Roger nodded understanding, his usual bumptious bonhomie gone. Geoffrey had never seen him so morose, and he wondered if that was how all murderers acted within moments of their crime.

While Roger watched from the shadows, a pathetic, hulking figure in a shabby surcoat and an incongruous pale blue brothel shirt, Geoffrey made his way across the street toward the stables. The main road outside Abdul’s Palace was now a seething mass of fighting men, some armoured, others not; some using swords, others daggers. Geoffrey watched curiously for a moment, wondering how the noisy but amicable evening could have erupted so quickly into violence. There were more knights than the thirty he had seen earlier, and he imagined a rowdy group of Lorrainers must have entered and picked a fight with the Normans already there.

He reached the stable unnoticed and slipped inside to the warm smell of damp hay and manure. A horse snickered at him, shifting uneasily in the straw, and Geoffrey patted its nose to soothe it. Like Roger, he was fond of horses, and he would certainly avoid roasting the beasts alive. A quick survey told him that there were only three of them-two destriers that probably belonged to knights intending to spend the night at Abdul’s, and an ancient nag with sad eyes.

The destriers were restless, made nervous by the commotion outside. Geoffrey slipped the bolts on their stalls and began to kindle a fire in some lose straw. As the fire caught and white smoke poured out, he pushed the bundle of bloodstained covers on top and watched them smoulder. As the acrid stench of burning filled the stable, the horses began to panic, kicking back against the stall doors. Finding themselves unexpectedly free, the destriers bolted out, crashing among the fighting men and adding to the havoc. Nonchalantly, and with admirable panache, the nag followed, backing sedately out of its stall, and even finding time to snatch a mouthful of hay before ambling at a leisurely pace into the road, and heading not for the fighting, but for the freedom of the city streets.

By now, Geoffrey’s fire was well under way, and the stable was filling with a choking smoke. Geoffrey’s eyes smarted as he kicked the burning hay to make it burn faster. He turned to leave just as the stable door slammed firmly shut. He was not overly concerned, imagining the wind had caught it-until he heard the sound of a bar being dropped into place on the other side. He gazed at it in disbelief, before beginning to yell at the top of his lungs and hurling himself against it with all his might. It held fast. It was becoming difficult to breathe, and he dropped to his knees to inhale the clearer air near the floor. As he knelt, he glimpsed a flutter of material caught against the door at waist level. It looked like material from a knight’s surcoat, torn when someone had leaned his weight against the heavy doors to close them. Behind him, a timber post, well and truly alight, crashed down in a shower of sparks, and he had to hurl himself backward to avoid being hit. It fell sideways, blocking the door. Geoffrey regarded it in dismay. He would certainly not be leaving the burning stable that way!

The burning post set more hay alight, and the flames began to roar and crackle. Geoffrey could not have put it out now, even had he tried. The release of the horses must have alerted someone that mischief was afoot, and the door had been closed on the arsonist as a kind of instant revenge. Or was it more sinister than that? Was the person who trapped him in the burning building Melisende, or one of the Greeks she had ordered to follow him?

He coughed hard, his lungs rebelling against the choking fumes he was inhaling. A distant part of his mind told him that the identity of the person responsible for locking him in the stable really did not matter much, and that he would be better served seeking another way out. The stable was a small building, low and single-storied. He tried to focus his smarting eyes on the roof, but it was dense with smoke, and the stillness of the fumes indicated that there were no gaps to the outside that he could exploit. He tried to stand to grope his way round to the back of the stalls, but he became dizzy through lack of air and dropped back onto his hands and knees.

Slowly, becoming weaker by the moment, he crawled along the floor until he reached the back wall. He hammered half-heartedly, but the wood was solid. He moved on further, hoping to find a gap, or even some kind of door. Just as he was beginning to despair and to feel it might be easier to give up, his fumbling fingers detected an irregularity in the wood. It felt as though one of the planks had rotted, and rather than go to the expense of replacing it, someone had simply nailed another over the top. If he could prise the new plank away, he might be able to break through the rotten wood and escape.

But whoever had nailed the plank in place had done a thorough job, and after several abortive attempts, Geoffrey knew he would not be able to get it off. Above him, the roof began to burn, flames running in ribbons up the timbers to the dried mud roof. Another supporting pole crashed to the floor, showering Geoffrey with sparks, and he saw his surcoat began to smoulder. Now he could barely breathe at all, and his head swam. As another pillar began to collapse with a tearing groan, darkness descended over him.