by Hight, Jack
‘Perhaps,’ Yaqub said in a guarded tone. One of his hands moved beneath the counter. ‘What is it that you wish to prepare?’
John spoke in a low voice. ‘Murder.’
The man’s forehead creased. ‘Leave, now,’ he hissed and pulled a curved dagger from beneath the counter.
John did not move. ‘Tristan in the palace kitchens said you were the person to see for such things.’
Yaqub held the point of the dagger close to John’s chest. ‘Tristan is a fool. Go, now!’
John moved fast, grabbing Yaqub’s wrist beneath the dagger with one hand while seizing the man’s caftan and pulling him into the street with the other. The merchant in the next stall made no move to intervene. John pinned Yaqub down and leaned over him. ‘I do not have time for games. Talk.’
‘What are you doing?’ Yaqub cried, his eyes wild. ‘Help!’
John twisted the knife from Yaqub’s hand and held it close to the merchant’s face. Yaqub quieted immediately. John pulled him to his feet and hauled him down the street and into a side alley open to the sky. It was raining heavily, and soon they were both soaked. John slammed Yaqub’s back against the wall of the alley. ‘You will tell me what you know,’ he said to the merchant, ‘one way or another.’
‘W-what sort of priest are you?’
‘Who I am does not matter. Talk. You deal in poisons, yes?’
‘I am a spice merchant,’ Yaqub insisted.
John held the dagger near the man’s crotch and tapped it against the inside of his thigh. ‘Talk. I will not ask again.’
‘I-I sell certain herbs,’ Yaqub admitted. ‘To increase virility or to ensure love. Not to kill.’
‘That is not what Tristan says.’ John moved the blade closer to the man’s privates.
‘I swear to you!’ Yaqub whimpered. ‘Do not hurt me. I did sell such things once, but it was a bad business. A dangerous business.’
John looked into the man’s wide brown eyes. ‘I believe you,’ he said and released Yaqub. ‘A friend of mine died recently, and I suspect he was murdered. I am looking for a drug that would make it seem as if a man had died of the flux. Do you know of such a poison?’
‘Was his death sudden?’
‘He grew sick over several weeks.’
‘And did you notice your friend’s fingernails after he died?’
‘They were tinged yellow.’
‘Al-Zarnikh,’ Yaqub said. ‘A most deadly poison. Odourless, undetectable. It takes many doses to kill, so tasters are useless.’
‘Who sells it?’
‘I know of one man, a Syrian merchant, Jalal al-Dimashqi.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He comes to Jerusalem every other month with a caravan from Damascus. He should be here next week.’
John frowned. He wanted answers today.
Yaqub took John’s creased forehead as a sign of anger. ‘I promise, I speak the truth! I can tell you where to find him. He stays in the Syrian quarter and worships at the Church of Saint Anne. If you ask for him there, someone will show you the way.’
‘Thank you.’ John held out Yaqub’s dagger, handle first. The spice merchant hesitated. Finally he took it. John started to walk away, but turned. ‘If you warn this Jalal al-Dimashqi that I am coming for him, it will not go well for you.’
‘I will not,’ Yaqub promised. ‘I bear him no love.’
‘Good day, then, Yaqub, and may God grant you fortune.’
John shook water from his cloak as he stepped into the palace. He was late for the meeting of the Haute Cour. Baldwin had been king for three months, and the court had finally assembled to select a permanent regent. The guards at the door to the council chamber nodded in greeting and opened the door just enough to allow John to slip inside. He could not vote, but he was allowed to be present as an adviser to the king. The throne at the far end of the hall was empty. Some forty nobles were gathered before it, some whispering quietly, others in animated discussion. Barons from all over the kingdom had come, and they had separated themselves into two distinct groups. On the left side of the hall stood Agnes’s faction, which was expected to support the acting regent, Miles de Plancy. John found him arrogant and high-handed, and he was not alone in his opinion. Miles’s refusal to accept advice had alienated many of the leading barons, but Agnes had stuck with him. John guessed his lack of support made him pliable. Amongst Miles’s supporters, John noticed the archdeacon Heraclius speaking with Reynald de Chatillon. That was a match made in hell, if ever there was one. They were talking with a third man who John did not recognize.
The other candidate for the regency was Raymond of Tripoli, an intelligent, cultured man who shared John’s respect for the Saracens. He stood on the right side of the hall, surrounded by his supporters, including several of the most powerful barons: the constable Humphrey of Toron, Baldwin and Balian of Ibelin, and the young Walter of Brisebarre. John was surprised to also see Reginald of Sidon, Agnes’s husband, with them.
John slipped through the crowd to find William, who stood in the shadows of the right-hand wall. ‘Where have you been?’ the chancellor hissed.
‘Looking for answers to Amalric’s murder.’
John had told the priest of his suspicions and kept him apprised of his search. William did not disapprove, but nor was he enthusiastic about John’s inquiries. After all, if someone had killed the king, then it would be a small thing for him or her to kill John and William. ‘Well?’ William demanded. ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Maybe. What have I missed?’
‘Baldwin and the seneschal have not yet arrived. I suspect that Miles is delaying because he knows his time is up. Raymond has the support of the most powerful nobles, and he is young King Baldwin’s closest male relative. It will be a tight vote, but he should win. Ah, here is the King.’
The men knelt as Baldwin entered, flanked by Miles de Plancy and Agnes. Baldwin sat and motioned for his subjects to rise. Miles stepped forward to speak, his nasal voice filling the chamber. ‘Welcome, lords and friends. As you know, I assumed the burden of the regency upon the death of King Amalric, requiescat in pace. But my rule was ever only temporary, until the Haute Cour could be summoned to appoint a permanent regent. Today, we shall accomplish that task. Raymond of Tripoli has put forth his name for consideration. And if you feel that I have governed well these past three months, then I humbly ask that you consider confirming me as regent. Are there any other candidates?’
Miles paused to draw breath and then continued. ‘Very well, I—’
‘Wait!’ Agnes said. The seneschal looked to her in surprise. ‘I propose Amalric de Lusignan.’
There was shocked silence and then an uproar as the barons began to talk loudly amongst themselves about this new, unexpected candidate. John looked to William. ‘Who?’
‘That man there.’ William pointed across the hall to the young man who had been speaking with Heraclius and Reynald. He was tall and well built, clean-shaven in the French manner, and had shoulder-length brown hair. He would have been handsome but for a snub nose that gave him a slightly piggish appearance. ‘He has only recently arrived from France,’ William explained. ‘Apparently, Agnes has taken a liking to him.’
John scowled. Was that why she had refused to see him since Baldwin became king? He looked from Amalric de Lusignan to the seneschal Miles, who was standing pale and speechless beside the throne. ‘And apparently she has tired of Miles de Plancy.’
‘No doubt she did not believe he would be named regent,’ William noted. ‘He has outlived his usefulness.’
‘What of this Amalric? Can he win?’
William shrugged. ‘Not likely. But Agnes would not have put him forward if she did not think he had a chance. Look at the barons.’ The men were arguing animatedly in groups of three and four. ‘Men who were sure they would vote for Miles or Raymond are now being forced to decide anew. Most of Miles’s supporters will vote as Agnes wishes. Perhaps some of the other barons wi
ll switch their votes from Raymond to this Amalric.’ William nodded towards Miles, who had recovered his composure. ‘We shall see soon enough.’
‘Lords and friends,’ Miles began, his shaky voice just audible above the crowd of men. ‘Lords and friends!’ he repeated more loudly. The barons quieted. ‘In light of this unexpected candidacy, we all need time to consider our options. The King and I shall retire to allow you to reach a decision.’ The seneschal left the hall without waiting for a response. After a moment, Baldwin rose and followed him. Agnes remained behind and crossed the hall to speak with Amalric de Lusignan. He said something, and she laughed. She reached out and picked a piece of lint from his linen tunic. John looked away, disgusted.
‘What now?’ he asked William.
‘I must speak with Raymond.’
William joined Raymond in discussion with Reginald of Sidon. John remained in the shadows along the wall until he noticed Reynald standing alone. He crossed the room. ‘Reynald!’
‘Father,’ Reynald said in a voice so clipped it was almost a grunt.
‘What are you doing here?’ John demanded. ‘You swore an oath to return to France when you were released.’
‘Heraclius has absolved me of my oath.’
The archdeacon had overheard the conversation and now approached. ‘Oaths made to the infidel are meaningless,’ he said in his soft voice.
‘A man’s word is his word, regardless of who he gives it to,’ John countered.
Reynald snorted. ‘Who are you to speak to me of oaths, Saxon? Have you forgotten that you were my man once?’
‘Before you tried to have me killed.’
‘And who is this?’ Amalric de Lusignan asked as he stepped between John and Reynald.
‘John of Tatewic,’ Reynald said. ‘A Saxon.’
‘And a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ Heraclius added in a tone that made John’s title sound like an insult.
‘God grant you joy, Father,’ Amalric said. His vacant expression reminded John of a camel chewing its cud. What did Agnes see in him? ‘I am pleased to meet you.’
‘And I you,’ John said grudgingly. ‘You are a recent arrival in the Holy Land, my lord, so let me offer a piece of advice: choose your friends carefully, and your lovers more carefully still.’
John walked away before any of the men could respond. He went to where William stood talking with Raymond. Something was wrong. William was biting his lip and Raymond’s brow was knit.
‘Bad news,’ William told him. ‘The Haute Cour cannot conduct official business without the seneschal or the regent present. Miles is both, and one of Raymond’s men saw him leaving the palace at a gallop.’
‘The conniving bastard,’ Raymond grumbled.
The doors at the back of the hall opened, and all eyes turned. A thin young cleric stepped out and spoke in a trembling voice. ‘I-I’m afraid that the seneschal has been called away from Jerusalem on urgent business. The H-Haute Cour is adjourned until he returns.’ His last words were drowned out by a roar of disapproval from the barons. The cleric retreated quickly.
‘By the devil’s black beard,’ Raymond cursed. ‘I’ll gut the bastard!’
‘But Miles cannot simply leave,’ John said. ‘It cannot be legal.’
‘He is the regent and the seneschal,’ William said. ‘Who is to gainsay him?’
John looked to Raymond. ‘You can seize the regency. The barons would support you.’
‘They would,’ Raymond agreed. ‘But my regency would lack legitimacy. There would be nothing to stop the barons from removing me in turn, if they grew tired of my rule. There is only one thing to do. We must find Miles and drag him back to Jerusalem.’ Raymond studied John for a moment. ‘William tells me that you served King Amalric well, John. You speak Frankish, Latin and Arabic. Like me, you have spent time amongst the Saracens. You understand that they are men, not demons. And you were once a soldier?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I could use a man like you. You are a priest, so Miles and his men will be less likely to have you killed. Will you retrieve him for me?’
‘I have business in Jerusalem, my lord.’
Raymond frowned. ‘Surely it can wait.’
John thought of the Syrian poison dealer, Jalal al-Dimashqi. He would be in Jerusalem the following week. ‘If you are willing to wait a week before I set out, then I am your man.’
‘I have waited three months to be named regent. What is another week?’ Raymond gripped John’s shoulder. ‘You will have as many of my men as you need. Find that bastard for me, John, and bring him back here.’
A week later John walked the narrow streets of the Syrian quarter, winding his way towards the Church of Saint Anne. The quarter was filled with the low, resonant sound of nawaqis – wooden boards played with mallets – that the Syrians used to call their faithful to prayer. Jalal’s caravan had been due to arrive in Jerusalem that morning. If the poison dealer had come with it, then he would now be headed to church. John stopped for a moment outside Saint Anne’s. It was a Roman-style building with arched windows and a small dome at the junction of the nave and the transept. The men entering were all Syrian Christians, indistinguishable from the Saracens except by their faith.
When the flow of men had slowed to a trickle, John stepped inside. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Dozens of men were kneeling on the floor before him, while a priest prayed in Aramaic. John spied a young man near the door in the black robes of a Syriac priest.
‘Excuse me, Father, I am looking for Jalal al-Dimashqi. I understand he prays here?’
‘He did.’
‘Do you know where I can find him?’
The priest frowned. His head tilted as he examined John. ‘You are a friend?’
‘Yes,’ John lied.
‘Then I regret to inform you that Jalal is dead.’
John blinked in surprise. ‘What? How?’
‘His caravan was raided during the journey from Damascus. It was a terrible business. All but a few were killed. They were decapitated, and their heads impaled on stakes driven into the ground.’ The priest shook his head. ‘Jalal was so generous to the church. God rest his soul.’
‘Amen,’ John said and made the sign of the cross. ‘Thank you, Father.’
His mind was racing as he made his way back to the palace. It could not be a coincidence. Years ago, while travelling with Yusuf, John had come across a field of heads on stakes. It was the work of Reynald de Chatillon. Could Jalal’s death be his doing? John thought back to the feast in Aleppo, to when Reynald had complained bitterly about Amalric’s failure to ransom him. Had he killed the king? And if so, how could John prove it now that Jalal was dead?
John headed for the chancellery to discuss his new suspicions with William. He found the priest bent over a parchment. ‘What did this Jalal have to say?’ William asked without looking up.
‘Nothing. He is dead.’
‘Do you think—?’
‘Yes. I suspect he was murdered by Reynald. This bears his stamp.’ John explained about the caravan and the decapitated heads.
‘That is upsetting,’ William said when John had finished. ‘I have just had news from Acre. Miles de Plancy is dead, murdered by Walter of Brisebarre. It seems they quarrelled over the lordship of Oultrejourdain. Miles claimed it through his wife, but Walter felt the lands should have passed to him.’ William frowned. ‘After what you have told me, I now suspect there is more to his death.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Guess who has been named the new lord of Oultrejourdain.’
John felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Tell me it is not Reynald.’
‘It is. He left this afternoon for Kerak. He is to marry Miles’s widow, Stephanie, and to become lord of Montreal, Kerak, and the lands beyond the Jordan.’
‘A reward for killing Jalal?’
‘I suspect so. But who has the power to grant such a reward? It was surely
not Baldwin’s idea, and I do not believe Raymond capable of such deviousness.’
‘Nor do I,’ John agreed.
‘Agnes, then.’
‘No. She swore to me she had nothing to do with Amalric’s death.’
‘There is only one way to find out for certain who is behind Reynald’s sudden rise in fortune.’
John nodded. ‘I must pay him a visit in Kerak.’
Chapter 17
OCTOBER 1174: CAIRO
‘I am a loyal man—’ Yusuf stood at the window of his study and looked out over the flat rooftops to where the sun was sinking towards the horizon. Behind him, he could hear Imad ad-Din’s quill scratch as he transcribed Yusuf’s words. ‘I am a loyal man,’ Yusuf repeated. ‘I have vowed to protect the kingdom that Nur ad-Din left behind. In the interests of his son Al-Salih, I put first and foremost whatever will safeguard and strengthen his rule. In the interests of Islam and its people, I put first and foremost whatever will combine their forces and unite them in one purpose.’
Yusuf paused and looked to Imad ad-Din, who nodded when he had caught up. ‘I believe we can live in harmony with the ifranj, but not if we allow them to turn us against one another. You have signed a treaty with Jerusalem, a treaty aimed against me and against Al-Salih. Nur ad-Din would regard such a treaty as a betrayal. He is not here to take vengeance, and his son is too young to punish you, as you deserve. So I shall act for him. Tomorrow, I leave for Damascus. My army marches not for conquest, not for riches, but for Allah. We march to save the honour of the great city and its people, and to bring them back to the path of righteousness. If you wish to join us on this path, then you will open the gates of your city to us. If you persist in your perfidy, then you shall be punished for your actions. Bismillah, Saladin ibn Ayub, al-malik al-nasir. Add whatever other honorifics you see fit.’
‘Yes, Malik,’ Imad ad-Din murmured. He finished writing and placed his quill back in its inkwell. His forehead furrowed as he re-examined the document. ‘Perhaps you might consider a more diplomatic phrasing. Al-Muqaddam is husband to your sister and a great emir, yet you threaten to punish him as if he were a misbehaving child.’
