Geoffrey dragged his thoughts back to the home he had not seen for years, and tried to concentrate on his father’s disjointed letter. “He has hanged three Welshmen who he believes were stealing his sheep. Lord help us, Hugh! The man is a fool! I doubt very much he has the real culprits, and he is likely to bring the fury of the hanged men’s relatives upon himself with such a rash act.”
“And what would you have done?” asked Hugh, stretching his hands toward the fire, although the room was not cold.
“Tried to parley with the villages I believed were stealing,” said Geoffrey. “Or set a better watch over the sheep during vulnerable times to prevent the thefts in the first place.”
Hugh snorted in derision. “Your father was right when he sent you away from his flocks! You are far too soft to be the lord of a manor!”
“And now we come to the real purpose of my father’s letter,” said Geoffrey, ignoring Hugh and reading on. “He observes that I am careless for riches, but asks that I remember that Goodrich Castle is in sore need of stone walls, and there is a fine ram in the next village he would like to own.”
Hugh laughed softly, while Geoffrey crumpled the letter and thrust it into the fire. It hissed and sizzled, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Geoffrey leaned forward to prod at it, while Hugh replenished their goblets with the sour wine that Geoffrey had begged from the citadel’s cellars. Hugh allowed his long, graceful body to recline on the hard bed, and sipped carefully at the wine.
“Devil’s brew!” he exclaimed, wincing at its sharpness. “Do you have nothing better?” He eyed his friend resentfully and placed the goblet on the floor. Geoffrey’s dog padded over to it with interest, but walked away in disdain after the briefest of sniffs. Hugh watched it, his fair hair flopping over one bright blue eye. “So, what did you do with this woman you arrested this afternoon? You were far from kindly with her!”
Geoffrey shrugged, still poking the fire. “She seemed too shocked at Courrances’s murderous tactics for further conversation with me. I handed her over to the Advocate’s men. But then the Patriarch asked to question her because apparently two monks were murdered at the same time as Sir Guido three weeks ago. The Patriarch seems to believe that they may be connected. Since the Advocate is away in Jaffa, Melisende Mikelos was transferred to the Patriarch’s palace for questioning, and she will be brought back here to the citadel when the Advocate returns.”
The Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre was the impressive title adopted by Godfrey, Duke of Lower Lorraine, who had been the leader of one of the Crusader armies that had left France to reclaim Jerusalem; now he was in overall command of the city. Meanwhile, the Patriarch—an ambitious Italian called Daimbert—was the head of the Latin Church in the Holy Land. There was a constant power struggle between these two men and their supporters, and knights like Geoffrey and Hugh often found themselves drawn into their disputes. Geoffrey’s lord, Tancred, and Hugh’s, Bohemond, both powerful leaders themselves, were firmly allied to the Patriarch, a fact that made the Advocate wary of knights like Geoffrey and Hugh, who lived in his citadel.
“Why did you arrest this woman at all?” asked Hugh, breaking into Geoffrey’s thoughts as he, too, poked at the fire. “No one arrested the monks at the Dome of the Rock who found the body of Sir Guido of Rimini.”
“I had the impression she was not telling the truth,” said Geoffrey with a shrug. “And poor John lay dead on the floor in front of her. Would you wish his murderer to go free?”
“Of course not,” said Hugh soothingly. “You knew John much better than I did. But you must not allow friendship to cloud your judgement. What was he doing in her house anyway?”
Geoffrey had been wondering the same thing, but said nothing.
“You may have condemned her to death,” continued Hugh idly. “It is possible she had nothing to do with the death of John, as she claimed, but she may pay the price regardless.”
“She was holding the murder weapon, Hugh. What woman would stride over to a dead knight—according to her an unexpected and most unwelcome guest on her bedroom floor—hoist the dagger from his back, and run outside with it?” Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to pace in the small room. As he walked, he was aware that his legs were tired and stiff from his exertions on desert patrol, and he knew that he should rest. He was exhausted by the constant need for vigilance and the sheer physical grind of walking in the heat wearing chain mail and surcoat. Most knights rode, but Geoffrey found horses unsuitable for patrolling in the ferocious heat, and so he usually walked with his men.
“You are too inflexible in your thinking, my friend,” began Hugh. Anticipating a lecture, Geoffrey sat down and closed his eyes wearily.
Hugh, undaunted by his friend’s clear lack of interest, continued. “You say she had been out visiting her uncle, and she had only arrived back a few moments before she discovered the corpse. This means that she had walked across the city at the hottest time of day. She would have been sticky and tired. She said she drank wine and bathed her feet before going to rest. She must have been telling you the truth, because what woman admits to a man such personal details as washing her feet?
“Now, imagine her wearily climbing the stairs, longing to lie down in the coolness of her sleeping chamber, and what does she see? A bloodied corpse on the floor! You are a soldier used to such things, but she is a young woman who is not. Her reaction would have been one of disbelief. She would have touched the body to make certain her long walk in the sun had not made her hallucinate, and she would have touched the dagger. She did not say she hoisted it from his back: that was an assumption you made with no evidence to support it. Perhaps the dagger was lying on the floor next to John. So, she picked it up from its bloody pool in horror at her discovery, and then fled outside. You heard her scream. She then flung the knife from her when she realized that she still held it after you began to question her.”
Geoffrey eyed him thoughtfully. “The knife had disappeared when I thought to look for it later, which was unfortunate. If we had it, we could compare it to the dagger that killed Sir Guido.”
“True. And if the woman you arrested is executed as a murderer, and another knight is killed, we will know that she was innocent.”
“I am sure she will be pleased to hear it,” said Geoffrey dryly. “But it is none of our concern. The Patriarch’s clerks are investigating the matter now, and then the Advocate will decide what should be done with her when he returns.”
“The Patriarch has a difficult task,” said Hugh with sudden seriousness. “He is here to wrest control of Jerusalem from the Advocate and hand it to the Pope. Meanwhile, the rioting of today underlines that the Greek Church bitterly resents the superiority of the Latin Church, and will rebel against it at every opportunity. Then there is the Latin Church itself—the Benedictines control the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but the Augustinians and Cistercians feel they should be in charge, and they petition the Patriarch about it constantly. Meanwhile, the Hospitallers, headed by your friend Edouard de Courrances, are supposed to care for sick pilgrims, but Courrances is as good a fighter as I have seen, and he parades around the city letting everyone know that he is more warrior than monk. And to top it all, the real enemy—the infidel—laughs at us as we fight among ourselves.”
Geoffrey smiled. “True enough. To be honest, I wonder whether it is time to leave here, and be away from all this bickering.”
“But you are in the employ of Tancred,” said Hugh. “How would he manage without you? You are his eyes and ears in this pit of intrigue.”
Geoffrey looked at him in horror. “Is that what you think? That Tancred sees me as his spy?”
Hugh made a dismissive gesture. “Not in a sinister way, but no one can deny you are useful to him. But you are right, Geoffrey. The time for soldiering is over: perhaps we should leave the city for the diplomats and politicians to haggle over.”
“And kill for,” said Geoffrey. “Like John and Guido.”
Hugh scrubbe
d at his smooth cheeks and stared into the fire. When he looked up again, Geoffrey was asleep, long legs stretched out comfortably, the flickering light making shadows of the etched lines about his mouth. Hugh leaned back in his chair and studied his friend’s soldierly features: brown hair cut short in Norman fashion, clean-shaven chin, and strong, long-fingered hands. He was about to rise and go to his own bed in a chamber on the floor above, when there was a sharp knock at the door.
Geoffrey was on his feet with his sword at the ready before Hugh could even reply. The fair-haired knight made a motion of disbelief at Geoffrey’s distrust, even locked up safe for the night in the citadel, making Geoffrey grin sheepishly.
Geoffrey opened the door and admitted Helbye.
“Lord Tancred asks that you attend him,” Helbye said, his words chosen hesitantly, for he was a fighting man, not a messenger, by nature.
“Now?” asked Geoffrey in disbelief, glancing at the darkness through the open window. “It is well past the curfew.”
“Now,” said Helbye. “He is a guest at the Patriarch’s palace tonight.” He paused, looking at the glowing embers of the fire. “I think he wants you for more than desert duties this time. A priest has just been found dead. The man who found the body says that the murder weapon was a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.”
CHAPTER TWO
Geoffrey walked alone through the dark streets toward the handsome palace that the Patriarch had requisitioned for himself and his sizeable retinue. Although it was only a short distance from the great, square keep of the citadel, Geoffrey was wary. The roads were empty after the dusk curfew, but his sharp eyes detected shadows flitting here and there, and at night the city seemed even more uneasy than during the day. It was late, and all God-fearing people should have been abed, sleeping after an exhausting day of honest labour under the Holy Land’s blazing sun. But the city did not sleep, and Geoffrey was painfully aware that his progress through the shadowy streets was watched with interest by more than one onlooker.
He forced himself to think about the business at hand. He was aware of the wild rumours that flew around the Crusader community regarding the murder of Sir Guido of Rimini three weeks before. Why anyone would want to kill the quiet Italian was a mystery to all, and his untimely death at the hands an Arab-style scimitar had been blamed on all manner of people: on wicked Greek priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church; on the aggressive Order of Benedictines, who bickered for power with other monks; on the little Jewish community who lived near the towering western wall and who tried to keep as far away from the squabbling Christians as possible; and on the handful of Moslems who had miraculously survived the massacre when the Crusaders had taken Jerusalem the previous year.
So which of these rumours was true? Or were they all wrong, and was there something even more sinister afoot? Geoffrey narrowed his eyes in thought as he walked. The Crusaders had set out on a golden cloud of piety and hope to rout unbelievers from the most holy place in the world. But the rot had begun to fester within days: Crusaders from one country refused to cooperate with those from another, and their leaders were all in desperate competition for power and riches. By the time the ragged, disease-depleted, greedy, undisciplined rabble had reached Jerusalem three years later, any illusion that this was a just war fought by God’s heroes had long been shattered.
Geoffrey jumped as a dark shadow glided across his path, and forced himself to relax when he saw the dull gleam of a cat’s yellow eyes. He was relieved when the dim lights of the Patriarch’s palace came into view. There were always lights burning at the Patriarch’s headquarters, as there were always candles glimmering at the windows of the citadel, where the Advocate lived. Geoffrey headed for the wicket gate in the huge bronze-plated door at the front of the palace, and knocked. It was opened at once—and slammed shut as soon as he had been ushered inside.
He was led through a maze of tiled corridors, off which doors of distinctive eastern design led. He had been in the palace on several occasions, but never at night and never further than the great state room in which the Patriarch conducted his public business. Now he was escorted to a small chamber on an upper floor, where he was furnished with a goblet of spiced wine and then abandoned. He looked around him. The little room was a far cry from the sumptuous hall below: worn carpets of faded colours replaced the glorious mosaic of the hall floor, and instead of the fabulous gilt-painted murals and Byzantine pillars there were plain whitewashed walls. Under the window was a roughly made table, piled high with parchments and scrolls. Naturally curious, Geoffrey unrolled one and began to read.
“Do you possess a knowledge of astronomy, as well as your other skills?”
Geoffrey turned with a smile of greeting to Tancred, and replaced the scroll on the table. Tancred, like his uncle Bohemond, was a formidable figure—tall, broad-shouldered, and with massive chest and arms. He kept his fair hair unusually short for a western knight, and like Geoffrey, he was clean-shaven. He came toward his old tutor with a welcoming grin.
“I heard you returned today from the desert. Any news?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “We found several abandoned camps and were attacked twice, but we uncovered no evidence that Arab forces are massing in the east. I suppose an attack, if there is one, will come from the Fatamids in Egypt.”
Tancred shrugged. “You are probably right, but it is best to be sure. You were gone so long, I wondered whether you were coming back.”
Geoffrey looked at him sharply, wondering whether this intelligent, perceptive young man was aware of his misgivings about remaining in Jerusalem. Most of the Crusaders had gone already—either back to their homes in the West or to richer pickings in lands more prosperous than the parched, arid desert around the Holy City.
He raised his hands in a shrug. “Perhaps it is time to be thinking of returning home.”
“Home?” echoed Tancred. “Home to what? Your sheep-farming brothers, who regard you with such suspicion, because they think that you have come to wrest away their meagre inheritance with your superior fighting skills? To those monasteries and their dusty books?”
“Why not?” asked Geoffrey, irritated that the younger man should be questioning his motives. “I am tired of trudging around baking deserts weighed down with chain mail looking for phantom Saracens. I would not mind sitting in the cool of a cloister reading mathematics or philosophy.” He paused. “And I miss England. I find myself longing for the green of its forests, and the heather-clad hills of autumn.”
Tancred gaped at him in disbelief. “My God, man!” he breathed. “Have you become a poet all of a sudden? Where is your manhood?” He gestured with his hand. “There are riches for the taking in this land, and you hanker after the wet trees and flowers of England! You have not even lived there for twenty years!”
Geoffrey felt his temper begin to fray. He was tired from his patrolling, and his reasons for embarking on the Crusade had already been well and truly aired by Hugh that evening. He had no wish to be ridiculed a second time within the space of an hour.
“I do not want riches, and I grow sick of the slaughter here.”
Tancred made an exasperated sound. “And here we reach the nub of the issue: the slaughter. You were always squeamish about such matters. I have heard how you declined to slay the infidel when we took Jerusalem.”
“The infidel we found were mostly women and children,” objected Geoffrey hotly. “And, besides, not all who were slain were infidels—many were Christians. In the frenzy of killing, even some of our own monks and soldiers were slaughtered. The massacre was so indiscriminate that it included anyone unable to defend himself. What man would want to take part in so foul a business?”
“Most of your colleagues,” said Tancred dryly. “Why not, when the rule of the day was that plunder belonged to the man who killed its owner?”
“It is exactly that kind of lawlessness that I find repellent,” said Geoffrey wearily. “Perhaps you are right, and I have lost my spirit. But I have h
ad enough.”
“Come, Sir Geoffrey,” said Tancred dismissively. “You are a knight, trained to fight since childhood. What else would you do? There is nothing for you on your father’s manor in England—that is why he sent you away in the first place, is it not? Where would you go? Despite your monkish tendency toward books and scrolls, you are too independent a thinker to become a priest. You would not survive for a week, before you were thrown out for refusing to be obedient. Look at you now, questioning me, your liege lord!”
Guiltily, Geoffrey looked away. He was fortunate that Tancred tolerated his occasional bouts of insubordination. Bohemond certainly would not have done so. In his heart of hearts, Geoffrey knew Tancred was right. If he forswore his knighthood, there was little else he could do. He was too old to become a scholar, and he had no intention of taking a vow of chastity to become a monk.
Tancred walked to the table and picked up the scroll Geoffrey had been reading. “This is a treatise on why shooting stars can be seen at certain times of the year and not others,” he said, changing the subject. “By an Arab astrologer. Are you familiar with his work?”
Geoffrey nodded impatiently. “I have read his theories on shooting stars,” he said. “But I believe them to be fatally flawed. These heavenly bodies are seen in the summer months, but not in the winter, and I think it must have something to do with heat.”
“You believe the Earth can influence the movements of the heavens?” queried Tancred. “Archbishop Daimbert would say that is heresy, Sir Geoffrey. The heavens are ruled by God, not the Earth.”
Geoffrey sighed. “I did not say the Earth causes the stars to fall only in the summer,” he said, trying not to sound patronising. “Perhaps they fall all year, but conditions on the Earth are such that we can only see them in the summer.”
Tancred chewed throughtfully on his lower lip. “That is an interesting concept,” he said, smiling suddenly. “You are among very few here who possess scholarly knowledge.” He raised his hand to preempt Geoffrey’s objections. “Oh, the priests are educated and know all manner of things, but they do not think as you do. And they do not speak the languages that you can—French, Italian, Latin, and Greek. Do not think of returning to your sheep yet, Geoffrey. I have need of you here. Helbye tells me you are learning Arabic?”
01 - Murder in the Holy City Page 3
