by Hight, Jack
‘From Nur ad-Din?’
‘Gumushtagin.’
Yusuf’s stomach twisted. He checked the message’s seal. It was unbroken. ‘Thank you, Brother. I will read it in my quarters.’
The dark-eyed Turkish beauty that Faridah had selected for him was waiting in his bedroom. She wore a transparent cotton shift. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ she purred. ‘Do you wish to celebrate?’
Yusuf waved her away. ‘Leave me.’
He went to his study and shut the door. He broke the seal and unrolled the small scrap of paper. Gumushtagin’s message read: You are Vizier, as I said you would be. The opportunity will come soon for you to aid me in turn.
A wave of anger flooded through him. He went to the table along the back wall and swept the quills and inkstand away, splattering dark ink on the rug. The bastard! Gumushtagin was the one who had killed his uncle. Did the eunuch truly expect Yusuf to be thankful? He would kill him. He would have his head on a spear.
Yusuf’s anger left as quickly as it had come. He could not touch Gumushtagin without endangering Asimat and Al-Salih. But the eunuch had made a mistake. He had made Yusuf vizier. If Gumushtagin thought he would serve as his puppet, then the eunuch was sorely mistaken. He would bide his time, and he would have his vengeance.
Yusuf held the message to one of the candles burning on his desk until it caught light. He dropped the paper on the stone floor and watched it burn to ash.
Chapter 10
JUNE 1169: JERUSALEM
John scratched at a mosquito bite on the tonsured patch atop his head as he strode down a narrow lane in the shadow of the Temple Mount. Usually, he would now be at the chancellery sifting though stacks of correspondence, or in council with the king, or tutoring his son Baldwin, but this morning he had a different task. Under his left arm he carried a small box that contained holy water and the host. He had never before taken confession or delivered the Sacrament of Holy Communion, and he was nervous; doubly nervous because the woman whose confession he was to hear was Agnes de Courtenay. It had been over four years since John had last seen her. She had stayed at her home in Ibelin, and John had long since forgotten about her request that he serve as her confessor when she visited Jerusalem. But she had not forgotten him. Yesterday she had arrived in the city and had sent for him.
John passed a bakery that flooded the street with the rich smell of baking bread. His stomach grumbled, and he regretted not eating before he left the dormitory in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He turned on to a sunny lane that twisted into the heart of the Syrian quarter. After asking directions from two Assyrian men drinking coffee in the shade of their shop, he found Agnes’s home.
He knocked, and a thin Frankish man opened the door. ‘Father?’
‘I am John of Tatewic. The Lady de Courtenay has sent for me.’
‘You are expected.’ The servant led John through the courtyard where he had met with Agnes before and into a dim room, the windows covered with intricately carved wooden screens. ‘Wait here.’ The floor was thickly carpeted. Cushions lay scattered around a low table set with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Beyond the table, a silk screen divided the room. Through it, John could make out the outlines of a large bed.
‘John!’ Agnes smiled brightly as she entered from a door to the right. She was dressed in a loose robe of green silk.
‘My lady, I have come to hear your confession.’
‘Sit, John.’ She gestured to the cushions around the table.
‘Perhaps we should go somewhere more appropriate. You have a private chapel?’
‘I am more comfortable here.’ She raised her chin and looked down her delicate nose at him. ‘Sit.’ This time, it was a command.
John placed the box with the host on the table and sat, sinking into the down-filled cushions. Agnes sat beside him, uncomfortably close. She poured two glasses of wine and offered one to him. He hesitated.
‘It is not poison, John,’ Agnes said playfully.
He took a sip. The wine was uncommonly good. He set the cup aside. ‘You did wish to confess, my lady?’
Agnes smiled slyly. ‘I will confess this: I brought you here on false pretences. I wished to see you again, John.’
He felt his pulse quicken. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look away from Agnes’s green eyes. ‘I am a priest and a councillor to the King. I do not have time to wait upon your pleasure.’
He began to rise, but she place a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be upset, John. I have recently been widowed and I need to talk. You are a priest. I thought I could confide in you.’
‘My apologies, Lady de Courtenay,’ John said as he sat back down. ‘I did not know.’
‘Hugh died earlier this year while on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’ Agnes shrugged. ‘He wished to be closer to God, and now he is. I did not love Hugh, but I do miss him. Women are not meant to live alone, are they, Father?’
John was not sure how to respond to this.
She laughed at his discomfiture. It was a high, musical sound, like birdsong. ‘But I do not wish to discuss my late husband.’ She set her wine aside. ‘Let us talk of you, John.’
‘Of me, my lady? What is there to discuss?’
‘Amalric offered you a good marriage with a large dowry, but you chose to become a priest. Why?’
John felt a pain in his chest. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’
‘A woman? A Saracen?’ John looked away and nodded. Agnes reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair back from his face. ‘I know what it is like to be separated from the one you love, John.’
He caught her by the wrist and pulled her hand away from his hair. ‘My lady, do not—’ he began, but she interrupted him with a kiss. Her lips were full and soft. John closed his eyes, and an image of Zimat flashed through his mind. He shoved Agnes away with more force than he had intended, and she fell back on the cushions, her eyes wide with surprise. For the first time since John had met her, she did not look commanding or superior. She simply looked like a woman. How long had it been since he had lain with a woman? He had lost track of the years. She started to push herself up, but John put his hand on her shoulder and stopped her. He moved on top of her and kissed her hard. She kissed him back hungrily, opening her mouth to his as her arms wrapped around him. His hand ran down her side to grasp her firm buttock, pulling her tight against him.
Agnes moaned softly as he kissed her neck. He allowed her to drag his chasuble off over his head, taking the gold cross he wore with it. He sat back and pulled off his linen alb. Agnes had untied her robe and it lay open, revealing her slim form, her skin as white as newly fallen snow. John put his arms around her back and lifted her to him, taking one of her pink nipples in his mouth. She gasped and grabbed his hair, pulling him up to kiss her mouth again. She lay back amongst the soft cushions, bringing him with her. Her hands moved down his sides to his waist.
‘Mmm,’ she purred. ‘It should be a sin for a priest to be so well mounted.’ She guided him inside her, and John groaned with delight. Her legs wrapped around his waist. He drove deeper, faster, grunting with pleasure. He felt a dizzying sensation, as if he were a spirit, free to float above the world. He kissed her lips, her neck. He could feel Agnes’s breath hot in his ear. Then there was a sudden rush of pleasure so intense that it was almost painful. He collapsed spent and rolled off Agnes to lie panting.
She pressed herself against his side and whispered in his ear: ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
John felt suddenly sick. He turned away and pushed himself up to sit with his head in his hands. He noticed his golden cross sitting on the wrinkled chasuble. What had he done?
He felt Agnes’s hand on his back. ‘I am sorry, John.’
John turned to look at her. It was the last thing he had expected her to say.
‘You love her still. I can see that. I should not have seduced you.’
‘I am the one to blame.’ He grabbed his cross and hung it around his ne
ck. The metal was cold against his hot skin. ‘I wanted to.’
‘As did I.’ She pulled her robe about her and then leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.
‘I should go,’ he said gruffly. He stood and pulled on the linen alb and the chasuble. The priestly garments had never felt so strange. He took up the box with the host. ‘I will not come again.’
Agnes smiled as if she knew better. ‘Farewell, then, John.’
John stood in the courtyard of the king’s new palace and watched as Prince Baldwin played with several other boys. Only eight, he was already a leader. The children had been playing with wooden swords, following his commands as he organized a mock battle. Now, they cast the swords aside and began a new game. Two boys would sink their fingernails into one another’s forearms. Whoever could stand the pain longer was the winner. Baldwin was facing off against a larger child, who smirked confidently as the boys gripped arms. Slowly, however, the child’s smirk faded into a tight-lipped grimace. ‘Enough! Enough!’ he cried. Baldwin released him, and the boy stood fighting back tears as he rubbed at the marks on his forearm. Baldwin was grinning triumphantly.
‘You must not see her again, John.’
John turned towards William. The priest had been staring fixedly at the ground without speaking ever since John told him what had happened between him and Agnes.
‘I told her I would not return,’ John replied.
William snorted dismissively. ‘You swore to remain chaste as well.’ He waited a moment for a reply, but John said nothing, his eyes fixed on the playing children. ‘It is not just that you broke your vow, John. Take a lover, if you must. Visit whores. God knows the Patriarch sees enough of them. But stay away from Agnes. She is only using you to gain access to Baldwin.’
‘I am not a fool, William. But why shouldn’t she see him? She is the boy’s mother.’
‘She is dangerous, John. It is not just her lack of lands that worried the High Court. She has had three husbands. Two died under mysterious circumstances.’
‘Her last husband died in Spain while on pilgrimage. There is nothing mysterious about that.’
‘Hugh of Ibelin was one of the healthiest men I have known—until one morning when he simply did not wake up.’
‘You think she murdered him? That is preposterous!’
‘I think she is a woman to be wary of.’
‘I told you I would not see her again,’ John grumbled. He looked back to Baldwin. The young prince had won again and raised his arms in triumph. He seemed to hardly notice the red welts that covered his forearms. John’s forehead creased. ‘Baldwin always wins at this game,’ he noted.
‘Do not change the subject, John.’
‘Look. The other boy is on the verge of tears, but Baldwin hardly seems to feel the pain.’
‘He is the son of a king. Royal blood flows in his veins.’
‘Kings feel pain, William.’
The priest thought about this for a moment and then his tanned face paled. ‘What are you saying?’
John lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he were afraid to utter the next words. ‘Lepers sometimes lose feeling in their arms and legs.’
William shook his head. ‘No. It is not possible.’ He raised his voice. ‘Baldwin! Come here!’ The boy jogged over. ‘Let me see your arm.’
Baldwin held out his forearm proudly. Some of the boys had dug their nails in so deep that they had broken the skin, leaving bloody, moon-shaped cuts.
‘Does it hurt?’ William asked.
‘I am the son of a king,’ the boy replied. ‘I do not feel pain.’
John exchanged glances with William, and called to a guard who stood in the corner of the courtyard. ‘You! Come here!’ The man strode over, and John held out his hand. ‘Give me your dagger.’
The guard’s eyes widened in alarm. He looked to William.
‘Give it to him,’ the priest ordered.
John took the dagger, then grasped Baldwin’s arm by the wrist, turning his palm upwards. ‘Hold still,’ he told the prince. Baldwin looked on indifferently as John slowly lowered the dagger, pressing the sharp point into the boy’s palm. Baldwin did not even wince as crimson blood welled up around the dagger’s point.
‘Enough!’ William shouted.
John handed the dagger to the guard. The man crossed himself and hurried back to his post.
‘May I play with the other boys now?’ Baldwin asked.
‘See that your cut is tended to, then you may play.’ As the boy ran off towards the infirmary, William looked to John. ‘The child has been cursed by God.’
‘Leprosy,’ Agnes repeated softly.
John was holding her hand, afraid that she might collapse. Her face was ghostly white, and she stared ahead as if not seeing him. Finally she pulled her hand away and left the room. John looked at the cushions where they had made love only three days past. It seemed so long ago now. John had come straight from the palace after discovering the horrible truth about Baldwin. Agnes was the boy’s mother. She had a right to know.
‘Forgive me, John,’ Agnes said as she re-entered the room. Her eyes were red from crying, but she smiled brightly. ‘It was rude of me to leave you standing there all alone.’
‘Are you well?’
She waved aside his concern and sat amidst the cushions. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
John sat beside her. ‘It is terrible news.’
‘It changes nothing. Baldwin will still be king. I am still his mother.’ Her forehead wrinkled, and for a moment John thought she might cry.
‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ he asked.
She took a deep breath, and her forehead smoothed. ‘No. Truly, John, I am well.’ She tilted her head as if she had had a thought. ‘There is one thing. You tutor Baldwin. You are often alone with him. Could you bring him here?’
‘My lady, Amalric has decreed that you are not to see the boy.’
‘He is my son, John, and he is sick.’
John hesitated. William had told him she would use him to see the boy. Was he right about her? He met her green eyes and saw that they were moist with tears.
‘I am asking you as a mother,’ Agnes said. ‘Let me see my boy.’
‘You ask me to go against my king.’
‘You have loved before, John. You still love her, I think. Yes, I can see it in your eyes. What would you do if the woman you loved were ill? Would you not want to go to her?’ John looked away, and she gripped his arm, turning him back towards her. ‘If I want to see my son, I will find a way, John. This way, you can keep an eye on me. What harm can I do with you here to watch?’
‘Very well,’ John said. ‘I will bring him to you.’
She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘Thank you.’
John sat with his eyes closed, submerged to his chin in the steaming waters of the Hospitaller bath house. He had just come from taking Baldwin to see Agnes; it was the second such trip in the past week. The child had been shy on the first visit, but Agnes had won him over. Just before he left, Agnes had presented Baldwin with a gold bezant. The prince’s eyes were wide as he held the coin. She placed it in a chest for keeping, then told him he would receive another bezant each time he came, so long as he told no one of his visits. Today, Baldwin had been eager to go and collect his coin. Agnes was certain he would continue to hold his tongue, and John prayed that she was right. There would be a price to pay if they were discovered.
But perhaps it was a price worth paying. John thought of Agnes’s lithe body, the feel of her under him that morning. He knew that William would say she was only rewarding him for bringing the boy. He was probably right. John knew that he should stop seeing Agnes, yet he could not wait to be with her again. She was like a drug he could not do without.
The deep toll of bells told John that it was almost time for the noon prayer service. He dressed and hurried back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Usually, he would allow his vicar to attend in his pla
ce, but today’s was a Penny Mass. The canons’ stipends would be distributed during prayers, and if John were not there in person, he would not be paid.
He let his mind drift during the Mass, thinking more of Agnes than of God. The service ended, and John had just received his ten gold bezants when a messenger boy arrived from the palace. ‘Pardon me, Father,’ he told John. ‘King Amalric has asked for you.’
John paled. Had Baldwin spoken of his visits with his mother? ‘What does the King want?’
The boy shrugged. ‘I only know that it is urgent.’
John followed the messenger down Patriarch Street towards the slender towers and wide halls of the new palace. Amalric and his court had resided there for two years, but the royal audience chamber to which the messenger led John had been completed only a few months previously. It was a long, barrel-vaulted hall with bright light slanting in through windows set high on the walls. The king’s throne had been set on a dais at the far end. Amalric sat surrounded by half a dozen courtiers.
‘I told you it would be money well spent!’ Heraclius was exclaiming.
‘Money spent on murder is never well spent,’ muttered Philippe de Milly, the new head of the Templars.
‘Spare me your self-righteous prattle, Philippe,’ replied the Master of the Hospital, Gilbert. ‘Another Saracen is dead, and Egypt is ours for the taking. The Hospital would have paid ten times as much for that.’
John slipped in beside William. ‘What is happening?’
‘Shirkuh is dead,’ William replied in a low voice. ‘Saladin has been made vizier of Egypt. He has sent an ambassador seeking peace.’
‘How did Shirkuh die?’
‘Poison. Bought with our gold.’
John’s jaw tightened. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Easy, John. I knew nothing of this.’
‘Ah, John,’ Amalric called, noticing his arrival. ‘You know Saladin better than any of us. Tell us: what sort of ruler will he be?’
All eyes turned towards John. ‘He is a great warrior and leader of men, sire. He will be a capable ruler.’
