by Hight, Jack
Suddenly, Humphrey charged. John just managed to turn the constable’s sword aside before Humphrey slammed into him, bowling him over. Humphrey landed on top of John, and the two men skidded across the slick stones of the courtyard. John managed to throw Humphrey off, but struggled to rise with his arm pinned to his side. Humphrey was already on his feet while John was still on his knees. The constable attacked with an overhead chop. John parried, and Humphrey kicked out, catching John in the chest. John fell back into a somersault and landed again on his knees. Humphrey charged with his sword held high. As he swung down, John threw himself forward under the blow, slamming into the constable’s knees. Humphrey flipped forward and landed hard, giving John time to push himself to his feet. Humphrey had also risen, and the two warriors faced off.
Humphrey began to circle again. This time, John did not wait for him to attack. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his feet, he charged, thrusting for Humphrey’s chest. The constable was caught off guard and just managed to sidestep the blow. John spun and slashed for his head. Humphrey jumped back out of the way but slipped on the slick pavement. His guard came down, and John swung for his head to finish the fight. Somehow, Humphrey managed to block the blow. Their blades grated against one another and locked at the hilt, bringing the two men face to face. John head-butted Humphrey, who staggered back, his blond beard matted with blood from his nose. John attacked again, putting all his strength behind a slashing backhanded blow. Humphrey parried, but John’s sword glanced off the constable’s blade and caught him on the side of the helmet, leaving a deep dent. Humphrey fell to lie unconscious at John’s feet.
The seneschal proclaimed the obvious: ‘John is the victor.’
A moment later, Humphrey’s eyes blinked open and focused on John. ‘Well fought.’
John dropped his sword and extended his hand to help Humphrey to his feet. ‘I had more to fight for.’
‘Hmph.’ Humphrey pulled off his helmet and gingerly touched the knot forming on the side of his head. He picked up John’s sword and handed it to him. ‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’
Amalric and the patriarch had already drawn straws. The king held the short one. He had begun to put on his helmet when the seneschal placed a hand on his arm. ‘Sire, do you not wish to choose a champion?’
Amalric shrugged off the seneschal’s hand and pulled on his helmet. ‘I will fight for myself.’
‘But sire!’ the patriarch protested. ‘You could be injured, or worse.’
‘How can I condemn this man to death if I am not willing to risk my own life?’
Amalric stepped into the ring and picked up the dulled sword. He rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them. The king was a large man, fleshy but strong looking, and he was fresh. At least the pain in John’s feet had dulled, although he dreaded what he would find when he removed his boots. He turned sideways to the king and raised his sword.
‘God save you,’ Amalric said. He touched his sword to John’s, then attacked straight off, grunting as he hacked down at John’s head. John parried, but the force of the blow almost knocked his sword from his hand. He gave ground as Amalric hammered at him, chopping down again and again. John managed to spin away, but Amalric was on him immediately, slashing for John’s chest. John jumped backwards to avoid the blow. Amalric stepped forward and reversed the direction of his blade, sweeping it up towards John’s head. John ducked and then slipped away to the centre of the ring. He went on the attack, thrusting at Amalric’s chest. The king knocked the blow aside, and John spun, bringing his sword in a wide arc towards his opponent’s head. His blade was met by the king’s steel. John attacked again with a flurry of thrusts, but Amalric easily turned aside each blow. John was breathing hard and his arm was tiring. He had to end this fight soon, and there was only one way to get close enough to strike.
He began to retreat, letting Amalric come to him. The king gripped his sword with both hands and levelled a wicked blow at John’s side. John did not even attempt to block it. He raised his sword over his head and took the blow with a grunt, feeling a sharp stab of pain as a rib snapped. Before Amalric could recover, John stepped inside his guard and brought his sword down, slamming it into the crown of the king’s helmet and leaving a deep dent. The king stumbled back, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. John attacked, but Amalric recovered in time to parry his thrust. Their swords locked together, and the king shoved John, who went reeling back across the ring.
John stood bent over and gasping, each breath an agony. Across from him, Amalric pulled off his ruined helmet and cast it aside. His blond hair was matted with blood. ‘My lord!’ the seneschal gasped as he stepped forward.
Amalric waved him back. ‘Let me finish this,’ he growled and raised his sword.
John did likewise. He straightened and forced himself to smile. He would show no weakness, nothing that might give Amalric an advantage. ‘I am waiting, sire.’
Amalric charged with a roar. At the last second, John threw himself at the king’s legs, but Amalric was ready: he leapt over John and landed on his feet. John rolled and had begun to push himself to his feet when the king’s sword slammed into his back, knocking him flat. Amalric stepped on John’s sword hand and then kicked his sword away. John rolled on to his back and found himself looking up at the point of Amalric’s blade. ‘Well fought, John. But the fight is over. Do you yield?’
John tried to rise, but Amalric stomped on his chest, forcing him back down. John looked past the king’s blade to his blue eyes, and then to the grey sky beyond. So this was how it ended. John closed his eyes. ‘I yield.’
John sat hunched over, his head between his knees, staring at the damp dirt floor of his cell. Today was the day that he would die. From somewhere close by came the sound of dripping water. How many more drops, he wondered, until they came for him? How many more before he was crucified?
The dripping was swallowed up by the sound of approaching footsteps. John shivered, despite himself. The time had come. The footsteps stopped outside his cell. He looked up and was surprised to see William on the other side of the steel bars. ‘I have brought someone to see you,’ the priest said.
William moved aside, and Amalric stepped into the pool of torchlight before the cell. John tried to stand, but the pain from his blistered feet was too great. He sank back down. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise, sire.’ Amalric waved away the apology. ‘Why have you come?’ John asked wearily. ‘Do you wish to see what a dead man looks like?’
‘You are not dead yet, John of Tatewic.’ Amalric produced a key and unlocked the cell. He pulled the door open. ‘I have come to free you.’
John blinked stupidly. ‘What?’
‘I have pardoned you,’ Amalric explained as he stepped into the cell. ‘I have need of men like you, John. You are a man of courage. You almost beat me yesterday fighting with one arm, after having defeated two great warriors.’
‘You are wasting your time, sire. I will not fight the Saracens.’
‘I do not want you to fight. I want you to serve at my court. I am surrounded by spies and intriguers. I could use someone from the outside, someone who is loyal to me alone. And I want you to tutor my young son in the ways of our enemy. You know the Saracens better than any of us. I want Prince Baldwin to speak their tongue, to know their ways. Who better to teach him? Will you serve me, John?’
‘I already have a lord. I cannot serve two masters.’
Amalric frowned. ‘If you will not serve me, then you will die, John.’
‘We are not asking you to betray your Saracen lord,’ William added, ‘but to help bring about peace between our peoples. This is a chance to redeem yourself, John. A chance to earn your salvation.’
John hesitated a moment longer. He nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘There is one condition,’ Amalric warned. ‘You must swear never again to take up arms against the Kingdom or your fellow Christians.’
‘I swear it.’
‘Good!’ Am
alric began to laugh his strange, manic laugh. The outburst passed as quickly as it came. He extended his hand. John winced at the pain in his feet as Amalric pulled him upright. ‘You are my man,’ the king said and embraced John. ‘Now, we shall have to see you married.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Life at court is not cheap, John. You need a wife with lands of her own.’ Amalric paused. ‘Why, John, you look as if you had swallowed a camel turd!’
‘I do not wish for a bride, sire.’
Amalric frowned. ‘It is either that or enter the priesthood.’
‘I am no priest. I have loved women, killed men, betrayed vows.’
William smiled. ‘That hardly disqualifies you. The Patriarch of Jerusalem is a brave warrior and a notorious womanizer.’
‘Priests!’ Amalric snorted. ‘Do not bother with them, John. Let me find you a wife.’
‘I—that is—’ John took a deep breath. ‘There is a woman.’
‘You are married?’ Amalric asked. John shook his head, and the king clapped him on the back. ‘Then what is the difficulty? I will find you a local beauty, one of the Syrian Christians, with ample – assets.’ He winked. ‘You will forget all about this other woman.’
‘No, sire. I would prefer to enter the priesthood.’
Amalric’s joviality vanished. ‘I cannot say I understand your choice, but very well. William will see to it. I will see you tomorrow morning at the palace.’ Amalric stepped out of the cell.
‘If I am free, what is to prevent me from leaving the city?’ John called after him. ‘From going back to the Saracens?’
Amalric turned and met his gaze. ‘Your word. That is enough for me.’
The king left, and William entered the cell. ‘Come, John. Let’s get you to your quarters. You will stay at the Hospital of Saint John until you are ordained.’ John put his arm over the priest’s shoulder and leaned into him as they left the cell. ‘After a suitable period as an acolyte, you will be made a canon in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ the priest told him. ‘You will receive a monthly prebend, from which you can pay a vicar to perform your duties. You will spend most of your time at court.’
They climbed a flight of narrow stairs and stepped out into the palace courtyard. It was a brilliant autumn morning, the sky a deep blue. William helped John across the courtyard and through a wide gate that led out into the city. They paused on the far side of the gate. Straight ahead stood the vaulted halls and churches of the Hospitaller complex. John looked down the road to his right, to where a church loomed over a pig market. In the distance to his left, a rocky outcrop rose above the city: the Temple Mount. He could make out the mighty Dome of the Rock, its gilded roof glinting in the morning sun. William noticed his wide-eyed expression and smiled. ‘A pretty sight, is she not? Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City.’
Chapter 2
MARCH 1164: ALEPPO
Yusuf awoke with a start. The sheets of his bed were damp with sweat. In his dreams he had been on the field of battle. He had run for his life and then turned to watch as John was struck down from behind. The same nightmare had haunted him ever since the defeat at Butaiha six months ago. He rose and crossed the room to throw open the shutters. Soft morning light flooded in, along with the wavering call of the muezzins beckoning the faithful to morning prayers.
From the window of his modest home he could see the citadel, its white stone walls rising sheer from the tall hill on which it stood. Yusuf had told the king, Nur ad-Din, that he was purchasing quarters outside the palace to provide a home for his widowed sister Zimat and her son Ubadah. But that was only part of the reason. The truth was that he wished to be as far away as possible from the palace. At Butaiha, Yusuf had saved the life of the king and earned himself a new name: Saladin, ‘righteous in faith’. He had become one of the king’s most trusted advisers, and yet the more Nur ad-Din confided in him, the more Yusuf was wracked by guilt. For he had betrayed his lord in the worst way imaginable. He had slept with Nur ad-Din’s wife, Asimat. Yusuf broke the relationship off, but not before Asimat became pregnant. She would deliver any day now, and the child was not Nur ad-Din’s. It was his.
‘Uncle!’
Yusuf turned to see his nephew standing in the doorway. Ubadah had the dark eyes of his mother. The arch of his brow, his straight nose and firm jaw, and his sandy brown hair all came from his father, John. But Ubadah would never know that. He thought his father was Khaldun, Zimat’s deceased husband. Now, Yusuf was raising the child as his own.
‘May I accompany you to prayers?’ the boy asked. Ubadah was almost six years old, still too young to attend prayers, but he enjoyed playing outside the mosque while Yusuf prayed. Yusuf guessed that he was simply eager to be away from home. Zimat had been short-tempered and melancholic since John’s death.
‘Very well,’ Yusuf said. ‘Allow me to dress, and I will meet you in the courtyard.’
They walked together to Al-Jami al-Kabir, Aleppo’s great mosque, and entered the courtyard. The sun had not yet risen, and the soot-covered stone of the broken walls was cast in soft pink light. Yusuf washed himself in the fountain at the centre of the courtyard and left Ubadah with strict instructions not to stray beyond the walls. He then entered the mosque, where he remained kneeling in silent prayer long after the other men had rolled up their prayer mats and left. His life had been defined by war with the Franks and service to Nur ad-Din, but now he could not think of battle without remembering John’s death. He could not confront Nur ad-Din without being flooded with shame. He had failed his friend and his lord. ‘Please, Allah,’ he whispered. ‘Grant me a chance at redemption.’
Yusuf rolled his prayer mat and rose. In the courtyard he found Ubadah playing at mock swordplay with the former vizier of Egypt. Shawar had been betrayed by his chamberlain Dhirgam and had fled Cairo with an army at his heels. He had arrived in Aleppo months ago, seeking help to retake his kingdom. He was a tall, thin man with a striking face – glittering eyes and sharp features that looked as if they had been chiselled out of stone. His hair and beard were shaved in mourning. He had vowed to not let them grow until he was once again ruling from Cairo. Ubadah mimicked a lunging blow, and Shawar clasped his hands over his chest as if he had been struck. He staggered backwards, swayed for a moment and toppled to the ground.
Yusuf clapped. ‘Well done, Ubadah!’ The boy grinned.
‘Ah, Saladin!’ Shawar rose and flashed a dazzling smile. Yusuf could not help but smile back. Shawar was a man of unfailing optimism, and Yusuf found his good humour contagious. He was one of the few who could lift Yusuf from his dark moods, and the two had become close friends. They hunted together and often dined at one another’s homes.
‘It is Friday. Why were you not at prayers?’ Yusuf asked Shawar with mock severity. ‘What is your excuse this time?’
‘I longed to come, as Allah is my witness,’ Shawar replied. ‘But I am a Shia, and your mosques are filled with Sunnis. I fear I would not be welcome.’ The Shia and the Sunni Muslims had split over who should lead Islam after the death of Mohammed. Over the centuries these differences had hardened into a mutual animosity that sometimes erupted into war. ‘If you have not breakfasted,’ Shawar continued, ‘then I would like to offer you the pleasure of my company.’
Yusuf laughed. ‘I am sure it is my sister’s company that you seek, but no matter. You are welcome in my home.’
With Ubadah in tow, the two men set out across the broad square at the heart of Aleppo, walking in the shadow of the citadel. Yusuf wove around local merchants and farmers, who were setting up their carts. He stopped at one and paid four fals for two melons, which he gave to Ubadah to carry. They left the square and walked through the narrow lanes to Yusuf’s new home, a two-storey structure with a courtyard that opened on to the street. Zimat was sitting at the courtyard fountain chatting with Faridah, Yusuf’s concubine. Ubadah ran to his mother and began excitedly describing his mock battle with Shawar.
‘I fear he dealt me a mortal
blow,’ Shawar proclaimed with a smile. He bowed low. ‘My ladies,’ he said, although he looked only at Zimat. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum. It is an unexpected pleasure to see you today.’
‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Zimat murmured and managed a small smile. She liked Shawar, that much was clear. The occasions when Yusuf had invited the former vizier to dinner were some of the few times in the last months that Yusuf had seen his sister smile. He had even considered offering her to Shawar in marriage.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Faridah said.
Shawar nodded at her and turned back to Zimat. ‘Your brother has invited me to breakfast. I hope my presence will not be too burdensome.’
‘Brother! You should have consulted me!’ Zimat complained. Faridah rolled her eyes. It was obvious that Zimat was not truly angry. ‘I have nothing prepared that is fit for a guest.’
‘I purchased melons.’ Yusuf nodded to the fruits Ubadah carried.
‘I will see what can be done. Come, Faridah.’ Zimat took the fruits, and the two women headed for the kitchen. Ubadah followed.
Yusuf led Shawar inside. They sat amidst cushions and Yusuf poured tea. Shawar sipped at it before clearing his throat. ‘When do you think Nur ad-Din will respond to my request for aid?’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘I have presented your case to him many times. He gives no answer.’
Shawar sighed. ‘As much as I enjoy your hospitality, friend, I long to return to Egypt. It is a paradise. The fields are green. The air is warm.’ He winked. ‘The women are beautiful. You would like it. Faridah is a beauty, but she grows old. You could use another woman.’
Yusuf thought of Asimat and frowned.
‘I did not mean to offend, Yusuf,’ Shawar hurried to assure him. ‘But I can see that you are unhappy here. You need a fresh start. Help me to retake Egypt, and I will offer you a place at my court. I could use a man of your vision and experience.’
