by Hight, Jack
‘What are you thinking of?’ Shamsa asked.
‘Of you.’ He touched her stomach, feeling a strange bulge on the left side – an elbow, or perhaps a head. ‘Of the child inside of you. You should leave for Aden soon. Turan has taken the city.’
‘I do not wish to go.’
‘You must.’
She took his hand. ‘You can stay, Yusuf. Fight! Defend your kingdom.’
‘And betray my lord?’
‘Better that than betray your sons. What will become of them?’
‘They will be safe in Yemen. It is far from Nur ad-Din’s lands.’
‘Yemen.’ Shamsa grimaced as if the word left a foul taste in her mouth. ‘Here they are princes of Egypt. They will be nothing there.’
‘There are more important things than power and wealth.’
‘So says a man who has never been poor.’
‘Even the poor man treasures honour, Shamsa.’
‘That is because it is all he has.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she were watching events from her past. She looked back to him. ‘You do not have to fight. There are other ways. When you eliminated the Caliph—’
‘No!’ Yusuf resumed his pacing. ‘I will not resort to murder. Never again. I am a man of honour, a warrior.’
‘A warrior who refuses to fight,’ she said sharply. ‘There is another word for that, one that your emirs know well.’
He flinched. ‘I am no coward. I fight when and where my lord wills it.’
‘Nur ad-Din is not coming to recruit you for battle, Yusuf. He wants your head.’
‘And he shall have it!’ he shouted. Shamsa winced, and her hands went to her belly. All anger drained from Yusuf. ‘Forgive me. I should not vent my anger on you. Are you well?’
‘It is nothing. The baby is shifting.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Enter!’ Yusuf called.
Ubadah stepped into the room. He was sixteen now, and the soft lines of his face had given way to sharper angles. He looked more like John than ever.
‘What is it?’ Yusuf asked.
‘You are needed in the council chamber, Uncle.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘At this hour? Who sent you?’
‘Selim. He is there with Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Imad ad-Din.’
Yusuf opened his mouth to curse his brother’s impertinence, but the words died on his lips. His stomach began to churn. Was this a mutiny? Why else would his leading councillors summon him to the council chamber? Yusuf knew they did not approve of his refusal to fight. Had they decided to resist Nur ad-Din, even if that meant removing their king? Ubadah’s face told him nothing.
‘Ubadah, you will stay here. Saqr!’ The head of his khaskiya entered immediately. ‘I want a dozen men of my private guard here, now.’
Yusuf waited for the guardsmen to gather, then set out across the palace. He paused at the stairs to the council chamber. ‘Remain here,’ he told Saqr. ‘If you hear me cry out, you are to come with swords drawn. Kill everyone. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Malik.’
Yusuf climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the council chamber. ‘What is this?’ he demanded.
The men turned to face him. Selim stepped forward and handed him a creased sheet of paper. Yusuf’s eyes widened as he read the short note: Nur ad-Din is dead. He died suddenly, only two days’ march from Damascus. He looked up. ‘Is this true?’
‘We have received other messages confirming it,’ Imad ad-Din said.
Yusuf read the message again. He could scarcely believe it.
Selim place a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘You were willing to die for the good of Islam, for the good of our people, Brother. Allah has rewarded your faith. I am sorry I doubted you.’
‘Shukran, Brother,’ Yusuf said and then scowled as a suspicion rose in his mind. The note said Nur ad-Din had died suddenly. Could it have been murder? Gumushtagin’s doing? No. The eunuch had made it clear that he was unable to move against Nur ad-Din without Yusuf’s help. Who, then? Yusuf looked at the men before him. ‘Do any of you know the cause of Nur ad-Din’s death?’
Imad ad-Din shrugged. ‘When Allah whispers the command that cannot be ignored, all men must answer.’
‘I do not believe this was Allah’s doing.’ Yusuf looked to Selim. ‘Tell me true, Brother. How did our lord die?’
‘We cannot be certain.’
‘Was it poison?’ Yusuf demanded. Selim looked away. That was all the confirmation that Yusuf needed. His fists clenched. ‘Which of you did this?’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘Who killed him?’ No one spoke. Yusuf went to Imad ad-Din. ‘Was it you?’ The scribe shook his head. Yusuf moved on to Al-Mashtub. ‘You?’
‘No, Malik.’
‘You, Qaraqush?’ The grizzled mamluk shook his head. Yusuf came back to Selim. ‘You urged me again and again to fight. Was it you, Brother?’
‘I did not kill him.’
‘I think you lie. We are all sons of Allah!’ Yusuf roared. ‘We do not murder one another!’
Selim straightened and met his brother’s gaze. ‘You know me better than that, Brother. I, too, am a man of honour.’
Yusuf’s anger ebbed from him as quickly as it had come. His fists unclenched, leaving red marks where his nails had dug into his palms. He took a deep breath, and when he continued his voice was calm and all the more frightening for it. ‘I believe you, Selim. But know this, all of you. When I find who killed our lord, they will hang. I swear it.’
Chapter 16
JULY 1174: JERUSALEM
John knelt in prayer on the stone floor of the crowded antechamber to Amalric’s apartments. He looked up as a low moan of pain emanated from the king’s bedroom. Three weeks ago Amalric had grown ill. His symptoms had steadily worsened, diarrhoea giving way to vomiting and then delirium. Just now, William had been called in to administer the last rites. John could hear Baldwin weeping from the corner where the young prince prayed. He was not the only one with tears in his eyes. It was not just that the king was dying; his illness could not have come at a worse time for the Kingdom.
Nur ad-Din’s death had presented an unprecedented opportunity for the Franks. Aleppo and Damascus were too weak to hold out on their own against Saladin or Nur ad-Din’s nephew, Saif ad-Din, who ruled from Mosul. As recently as last month, Amalric had led an army to Damascus, forcing Emir Al-Muqaddam to form an alliance with Jerusalem. John looked across the room to where Raymond of Tripoli knelt near Reynald de Chatillon. The two men had been freed as part of the deal. Aleppo had also sent envoys to forge an alliance. When it was completed, the Kingdom would finally be secure. But now Amalric was dying, and the alliances would die with him.
John was about to return to his prayers when the bedroom door opened. William emerged and came to kneel beside him. ‘How is he?’ John whispered.
‘Amalric is far gone. I do not believe he understood me.’
John bowed his head and resumed his silent prayers. He looked up as the door opened again, and the king’s doctor stepped out. Deodatus was a hollow-cheeked man in monk’s robes. John had experienced his notion of medicine years ago, when recovering from torture at the hands of Heraclius. John thought Deodatus a fool, but the king trusted him. Deodatus gestured for William to approach. John came, too.
The doctor spoke in an agitated whisper. ‘I tried everything I could. I used buckthorn to help purge him of his foul humours. I used up my supply of blackberry syrup, normally an infallible remedy for the flux.’ The monk shook his head. ‘Nothing availed.’
William looked as if he had been punched in the gut. ‘Do you mean—?’
Deodatus nodded and led them into the king’s bedchamber, closing the door behind them. Amalric lay pale and unmoving, his eyes staring sightless towards the ceiling. Strands of his hair had fallen out and lay scattered on his pillow. William went to the king and closed his eyes, then removed the royal signet ring. John noticed Amalric’s fingernails. He looked to Deodatus. ‘Why are his nails y
ellow? You are certain he died of the flux?’
The monk looked down his nose at John. ‘Do not presume to tell me my business! It was the flux. He had all the usual symptoms: vomiting, bloody discharge, fever, confusion.’
John was not so sure. He thought back to his last discussion with Agnes. She had hinted that Amalric would die soon.
‘Thank you, Deodatus,’ William said. ‘I am sure you did everything in your power. Please prepare him to be viewed. His family and retainers will want to see him.’
Deodatus nodded. ‘Give me some time with him.’
John followed William out of the room. All eyes turned towards them. William opened his mouth to speak, but John pulled him aside. ‘I am not so sure he was not murdered,’ John whispered. ‘The lady Agnes—’
‘It does not matter how he died, John,’ William said in a tired voice. ‘He is gone now. We are a kingdom without a king. God help us.’
John gestured to the prince. ‘What of Baldwin?’
‘He is only thirteen. He will not come of age for three years. Until then, a regent shall govern in his stead.’
‘Who?’
‘The seneschal Miles de Plancy will take over the government until the Haute Cour decides upon a permanent regent.’ William took a deep breath and turned from John to the room of kneeling priests and nobles. He raised his voice and called out: ‘The King is dead!’
Shock registered on the faces of the men in the room. The news sank in for a moment. Then they murmured more or less in unison, ‘Long live the King!’
‘What do you think of our new king?’ the fat-cheeked priest sitting in the next stall of the choir whispered to John. He nodded in the direction of Baldwin, who sat on a gilt throne at the centre of the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For his coronation, Baldwin’s face had been covered with creamy white lard to hide the ugly red splotches, and he was dressed in the royal robe of red silk, decorated with gold thread. The seneschal Miles knelt before the king, holding his sceptre. Beside him was the dour chamberlain Gerard de Pugi, who held the king’s sword, a mighty blade with a lengthy hilt, the pommel decorated with gems. Beyond them, a crowd of leading nobles and rich merchants sweated in the summer heat.
‘You have spent time with him,’ the priest continued. His name was Benedict, and John recalled that he was a fourth or fifth son from a noble family in France. ‘Will he be able to rule?’
‘And why would he not be?’ John whispered back.
‘The boy has leprosy, God help him.’
John smiled wryly. Baldwin hated nothing more than when people underestimated him because of his illness. ‘He will be a capable king,’ he responded.
‘That is good,’ Benedict murmured. ‘I hear the mother is already meddling.’ He looked towards Agnes, who stood in the front ranks of the crowd beyond the colonnade. ‘Rumour has it that she is a woman who does not know her place, that she seeks to rule through her son. And her daughter is said to take after her; she is a headstrong, wilful child. She is beautiful though, eh?’ Only fourteen, Baldwin’s older sister Sibylla was fine-boned and had long auburn hair and large blue eyes. John noticed several lords in the audience casting longing glances in her direction. It was not just because of her beauty. Baldwin’s leprosy had rendered him incapable of producing an heir. The future of the line lay with Sibylla. Now that she had left the convent of Saint Lazarus in Bethany, she was the most eligible woman in the Holy Land.
Benedict leaned close and winked. ‘I prefer the mother, though. Exquisite.’
John was saved from having to reply by Stephen, the dean of the canons, who glared at Benedict and hissed for him to be quiet.
The introductory portion of the ceremony was concluding. Baldwin rose from his throne and knelt before the patriarch, who prayed quietly as he anointed the king-to-be with holy oil. When he had finished Baldwin stood, and the patriarch raised his voice so that the crowd could hear him. ‘Baldwin, son of Amalric, sixth King of Jerusalem, may God grant you the wisdom to rule justly!’ The patriarch nodded to the chamberlain, who took the sceptre from Miles and placed it in the king’s right hand.
‘May God grant you the strength to defend the kingdom he has given you!’ the patriarch continued, and the chamberlain took the king’s sword and belted it around Baldwin’s waist.
‘May God grant you the faith to rule in his name!’ the patriarch concluded. Heraclius stepped forward holding the signet ring and a silver orb topped with a jewelled cross. The chamberlain slipped the ring on to Baldwin’s finger and placed the orb in his left hand.
Baldwin sat while the patriarch retrieved the crown from the altar and passed it to the chamberlain, who stood behind the throne and held the crown over Baldwin’s head. ‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ the patriarch declared. ‘I pronounce you Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem.’
The chamberlain lowered the crown on to Baldwin’s brow, and the audience knelt. Gerard raised his voice: ‘Long live the King!’
‘Long live the King!’ the crowd answered, their voices echoing off the marble-clad walls. Before the echoes had faded, some in the crowd were already leaving for the coronation feast. John had to stay for another half-hour while the patriarch prayed over the king and delivered a brief sermon exhorting Baldwin to rule according to God’s will and to fight the infidel Saracens. Finally the ceremony ended and John was able to return to his quarters and remove his suffocating priestly garb. He changed his clothes and then headed to the feast. He had not seen Agnes since Amalric’s death. This was his chance.
The celebration was being held at a luxurious home, built by a rich Jewish merchant before the city fell to the Christians. It was now owned by a Syrian. Two storeys tall, it was built around a series of courtyards that took up most of a city block. John was shown into the great hall. Three long tables ran its length, the king’s table, set at the far end, perpendicular to them. Baldwin sat at the centre of the table with Agnes and Sibylla to his right, alongside the patriarch, and the heads of the Templars and Hospitallers. The officers of the realm sat to his left, joined by Raymond of Tripoli and Bohemond of Antioch.
John skirted the perimeter of the hall and took up a position in a side passage not far from the king’s table. He waited until he caught Agnes’s eye and then nodded to her and stepped into the passage. She arrived a moment later.
‘Now is not the time, John,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘You killed Amalric.’
Agnes flinched. ‘How could you think that of me, John?’ There was hurt in her eyes.
‘Do not lie. You told me you were in the city to see Baldwin made king. Not four months later, Amalric lies dead.’
‘I have not been in the same room with Amalric since he annulled our marriage eleven years ago. How could I have killed him?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I shall miss him. He tried so hard to be a good king.’
John was confused. This was not what he had expected. ‘Do not pretend to mourn him.’
‘But I do mourn him. I loved him, John.’
‘Like you loved your other husbands. William told me what happened to them.’
Agnes’s mouth set in a thin line. ‘Whatever William might think, I did not kill them,’ she said coldly. ‘And I did not kill Amalric. I was angry with him, John. But that does not make me a murderer.’ She met his gaze unflinchingly. Was she telling the truth?
John lowered his eyes. ‘Forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘But Amalric was poisoned. I am sure of it.’
Agnes reached out to gently touch his cheek. ‘We are all of us upset, John. Do not go chasing after shadows. Amalric was only a man. The flux does not take rank into account.’
‘I saw his body, Agnes. Men do not lose their hair because of the flux. I owe Amalric my life. I could not save his, but I will avenge his death.’
Agnes took his head in her hands and kissed him. ‘God help you, John.’
OCTOBER 1174: JERUSALEM
John pulled his heavy cloak tig
htly about him to ward off the autumn chill as he dodged the puddles forming in the Street of Herbs. Vaulted stonework covered the narrow market passage and kept out most of the rain, but the vertical slits at the base of the roof that allowed light to penetrate also admitted steady streams of water, which pooled on the cobbles below. Many of the shops were closed. John prayed silently that the one he was looking for was not one of them.
After three months of fruitless investigations, John was beginning to think that the doctor Deodatus might have spoken true when he said the king died of the flux. First of all, John could not imagine how the poison had been administered. Everything that the king ate or drank had to pass two tests. First, it was put in a cup made from unicorn’s horn, which several cooks and Deodatus swore would render any poison harmless. John was dubious; when he had offered to have Deodatus drink poison from the cup, the doctor had refused. Still, he was not sure how the poison could have passed the second test: the king’s food was consumed by at least one of the dozen tasters in Amalric’s court.
Nor had he had any luck discovering who might have administered the poison. There were dozens of candidates: the cooks, Deodatus, even a councillor such as Humphrey. There were too many possibilities and too few clues. So John had finally decided to focus his efforts on the poison itself. If he could identify the type of poison and its seller, then perhaps that man could lead him to the poisoner. John was going to speak with one such dealer in the dark arts. A palace cook had told him of a Syrian merchant named Yaqub the Bald, who was rumoured to sell more than spices.
John had almost reached the end of the street when he found Yaqub’s stall. A bald man, perhaps a few years younger than John, sat amidst large earthenware pots filled with fragrant spices. The man had dark features, a prominent nose and fingertips stained reddish-orange from handling spices.
‘Yaqub?’ John asked.
The man nodded. His eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘What can I help you with, Father?’
‘I am preparing a special dish. I was told that you are the man to see.’
