by Hight, Jack
Yusuf sat across from her. ‘I have told you. What I have done, I have done for him.’
‘No. Surely you knew what would happen when you refused to fight Nur ad-Din. Gumushtagin revealed our secret to Nur ad-Din. You would have let our son die!’
‘I was willing to die, too.’
She looked at him coldly. ‘I was not. It was I who had Nur ad-Din killed.’ Yusuf recoiled at this. ‘Do not look at me like that. I loved Nur ad-Din. It is you who are responsible for his death, not I.’
‘I was prepared to let him kill me,’ he repeated.
‘Your life is your own to give,’ she hissed, ‘but not mine, and not that of our son!’ She took a deep breath and looked away, collecting herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. ‘The night that Nur ad-Din learned of our affair, he beat me. He promised to have me stoned, but not before he brought me your head on a plate. And he swore that Al-Salih would be tortured and crucified.’ She looked to Yusuf, her dark eyes burning with rage and sadness. He looked away. He did not know what to say. ‘So do not dare tell me that you are loyal to Al-Salih! And do not speak to me of your honour. What sort of honour is it that sacrifices the lives of women and children?’
Her dark eyes dug into him as she waited for him to speak. ‘What do you want of me, Asimat?’ he asked.
‘Our son Al-Salih will remain the ruler of Aleppo. In addition, he will have Azaz and the other towns near Aleppo.’
‘It will be done.’
‘That is not enough. You will marry me and officially adopt Al-Salih as your son.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘Your word is not enough for me, Yusuf, not anymore. Al-Salih must be your son. That is the only way he will be safe.’
Yusuf studied her as he considered her proposal. She was still beautiful, shockingly so. ‘There was a time when I would have given anything to marry you,’ he said softly. ‘Allah works in strange ways.’
‘Do you accept?’
‘Yes. Once Gumushtagin is delivered to my camp in irons, I will marry you.’
Yusuf stood across from Asimat on the grassy field at the centre of the citadel in Aleppo. They were both dressed in white. During the previous day’s henna ceremony, twisting patterns in dark brown had been traced on the little finger of Yusuf’s right hand. Asimat’s hands and feet had been decorated and her dark eyes – the only part of her face not covered by her veil – were outlined with kohl. Imad ad-Din stood between them. He was giving the marriage khutba, a brief sermon rejoicing at the marriage and calling Allah’s blessing on the bride and groom. The hundreds of guests waited patiently, the leading emirs of Aleppo mingling with the commanders of Yusuf’s army. Al-Salih stood in the front ranks of the crowd. He was dressed in luxurious robes of silk and gold and his sparse adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. Shamsa stood with the veiled women. She had arrived the previous day, along with Yusuf’s sons.
Shamsa and Asimat both had wills of iron, and Yusuf had feared that sparks would fly when they met. But Shamsa had surprised him. When she arrived she asked to meet Asimat alone. They spent the night in a locked and guarded room. The next morning Shamsa had told him that she approved of the marriage. ‘Asimat does not love you,’ she had informed him, ‘and she wants no sons by you. She is no threat to me. And she is clever. She will make an excellent wife.’
‘I call on all of you to witness this marriage,’ Imad ad-Din declared as he finished the khutba. He turned to Yusuf. ‘Saladin Yusuf ibn Ayub, King of Syria and Egypt, will you take this woman, Asimat bint Mu’in ad-Din Unur?’
‘I will.’ Yusuf stepped to a table that sat between him and Asimat and signed the marriage contract. It specified the mahr, or bride gift – fifty thousand dinar and the towns of Menbij and Bizaa – and it officially declared Al-Salih to be Yusuf’s adopted son.
Imad ad-Din turned to Asimat. ‘Will you accept this man, Saladin?’
‘I will,’ she said loudly. She too signed the marriage contract.
‘May Allah bless your union,’ Imad ad-Din declared.
The crowd roared its approval. Yusuf went to Al-Salih first and kissed the boy on both cheeks. ‘I am your father now,’ he said, ‘but you remain my lord.’ He knelt before Al-Salih.
The boy’s face twisted into a scowl. He turned his back on Yusuf and walked away. Yusuf rose. He could understand Al-Salih’s anger. To him, Yusuf was a stranger and a rival. It was bad enough that he had been forced to sign a treaty with him; it was a further insult that Yusuf had married his mother. The boy no doubt hated him. Yusuf hoped that would change in time.
It was time for the marriage feast. The men would meet in the great hall of the palace, while the women would celebrate with food and dance in the harem. But first there was one more task. Yusuf turned to Qaraqush. ‘Bring him.’
Qaraqush nodded to a mamluk, who hurried away. A moment later the crowd parted as Gumushtagin was pulled forward, shackles around his wrists and neck. He had been brought to Yusuf’s camp shortly after the meeting with Asimat, but Yusuf had refused to see him. He had entered Aleppo and ordered Gumushtagin thrown in the palace dungeon. After four weeks Gumushtagin looked a broken man, walking with his head down and his shoulders stooped. He was pushed forward to stand before Yusuf.
‘I swore that I would kill you if we ever met again,’ Yusuf told him. ‘I am a man of my word.’ He took the sword that Qaraqush handed him. The guards pulled on the chain that led from Gumushtagin’s neck, forcing him to kneel.
The eunuch straightened, and a trace of his old arrogance returned as he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘The Hashashin never fail. You can kill me, but you will join me soon enough. I will—’
Gumushtagin’s eyes widened as Yusuf drove the point of his sword into his gut. The eunuch fell forward on to his hands and knees, moaning in pain and spitting blood. Yusuf raised his sword and brought it down on the back of Gumushtagin’s neck. He wiped the blade on the eunuch’s tunic and handed it back to Qaraqush. Then he raised his voice to address the crowd. ‘Come. We have much to celebrate.’
Chapter 21
JULY 1176: JERUSALEM
A fat bee buzzed through the air and landed on the sleeve of John’s tunic. Its antennae wavered and then it flew off, back towards the herbs and flowers at the centre of the small cloister of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In the belfry tower on the far side of the church the bells began to toll, calling the faithful to Sunday Morning Mass. John stepped back into the deep shadows of the colonnade that surrounded the cloister. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet.
A vicar on his way to the sanctuary entered the cloister and passed John without noticing him. Two canons followed. John’s stomach tensed and he tightened his grip on the dagger in his hand. He was waiting for Heraclius. William had forbidden John to go to Caesarea, but now Heraclius had come to him. The archbishop was in town, staying in the patriarch’s palace. He would pass through the cloister on his way to Mass.
John heard the approach of booted feet. Four knights of the Holy Sepulchre stepped into the cloister, trailed by the patriarch and Heraclius. John let them pass and then followed, moving silently on his bare feet. He need not have taken the precaution of removing his sandals, for the bells were still ringing, their tolling drowning out all other sound. He crept after Heraclius into a shadowy hallway. On the right-hand wall was a narrow staircase; the night stair, which gave the canons easy access to the sanctuary for late night prayers. The guards marched up the stair in single file, followed by the patriarch. Heraclius had just put a foot on the bottom stair when John grabbed him from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth and slammed the butt of his dagger into Heraclius’s temple. The archbishop went limp, and John slung him over his shoulder and carried him from the room.
He hurried as he crossed the paved courtyard of the central cloister and slipped into the canon’s dormitory. He passed the vicars’ beds – pallets of straw, separated by wooden screens – and took a narrow staircase down to a long underground hallway with rooms opening off on eit
her side. He stepped into a small square chamber, the only furniture a trunk and a chair lit by light filtering through a window high on the far wall. John placed Heraclius in the chair. He shut the door and then took rope from the trunk and tied Heraclius down at the wrists and ankles. John retrieved a bucket of water from the corner of the room and poured it on the archbishop’s head.
‘Strewth!’ Heraclius spluttered as he started awake. He looked about at the bare-walled room, then to John. ‘John? Where am I?’ He tried to rise, only to find that he was tied down. ‘Release me at once!’
John turned his back on Heraclius and went to the chest. He rooted about inside, pulling out a series of horrifying torture implements – knotted whips, spikes, hooks – before tossing them back in the chest.
‘Do you hear me?’ Heraclius screamed. ‘Release me! Guards! Guards! Help!’
‘No one will hear you,’ John told him. ‘They are all at Mass.’ He found what he was looking for: a pear of anguish. He took the device out and turned to face Heraclius.
The archbishop blanched. ‘What are you doing?’ There was panic in his voice. ‘If you dare touch me, I’ll have you burned. Release me at once. Release me!’
‘I have a few questions first.’
‘Who are you to question me?’ Heraclius demanded, but his voice shook. ‘I am an archbishop. I answer only to the Patriarch and to God.’
John brought the pear closer. He had taken the wicked device from the palace dungeon. It was the same one the priest had once used on him. ‘You will answer to me, Heraclius. I am sure of it. If you answer truthfully, you shall go free. If not—’ John twisted the wing nut on top of the pear so that it expanded slightly. ‘Did you kill King Amalric?’
‘That is preposterous!’
‘Reynald told me that he killed the poison dealer Jalal at your bidding. The poison Jalal prepared was used to murder Amalric. The King was not dead a year before you were made archbishop of Caesarea.’ John leaned close, so that his face was only inches from Heraclius’s. ‘It all points to you as the murderer.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Wrong answer.’
John grabbed Heraclius’s chin and tried to force his mouth open, but the archbishop clenched his jaw shut. John pinched his nose closed. Heraclius’s face shaded red, and finally he opened his mouth to breath. John tried to shove the pear inside, but failed as Heraclius jerked his head to the side. John dropped the pear and drew his dagger. He held it close to Heraclius’s face. The archbishop went still.
‘If you continue to struggle, I will have your nose, Heraclius. And if you do not answer true, you will suffer the pear of anguish. If you will not take it in your mouth, then there are other places I can introduce it. Do you understand?’
Heraclius nodded. He was wide-eyed with fear.
‘Good. We shall begin again. Did you kill Amalric?’
‘No.’
John pressed the flat of his dagger against the side of Heraclius’s nose. ‘I told you the price of lying, Heraclius.’
‘No! Please! I speak the truth!’
‘You had Reynald kill the poison merchant. Why?’
‘Because—’ Heraclius swallowed. ‘Because I purchased the poison. But I did not use it! I swear it!’
‘Who did? Who did you give it to?’
‘Agnes.’
John stepped back as if he had been struck. Agnes. She had lied to him. John felt the blood begin to pound in his temples. He stepped back and sheathed his dagger. He placed the pear of anguish back in the small trunk, which he shut and placed under his arm. He went to the door.
‘Wait!’ Heraclius screamed. ‘You said you would free me.’
‘Mass will be over soon. If you yell loudly enough, I am sure one of the canons will find you before the day is through.’
John deposited the trunk in his cell and went straight to the palace. Once Heraclius was found, there would be a price to pay. He had to speak with the king first. The guards posted at the door to the king’s apartments barred his way. ‘The King is occupied.’
John pulled an old scrap of paper from his pocket. It was a list of things William had asked him to purchase at market last week. ‘I have important news from our spies in Damascus,’ he lied. ‘I must see the King.’
The guards made a show of examining the scrap of paper, but John knew that neither of them could read. After a moment they waved him inside. The curtains were drawn, and the king’s receiving room was dim but for the light cast by a low fire in the hearth. John closed the door quietly and stopped in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust. The king sat in a chair close to the fire. His malady left him cold, even in the heat of summer. Agnes sat across from him, her back to the door. Baldwin’s sister Sibylla stood by the curtained window. She was sixteen, and John had heard that since leaving the convent of Saint Lazarus to live in the palace, she had been caught in bed with no less than three men. It was said she was now forced to wear a chastity belt, and that only Agnes held the key. Sibylla was plucking the petals from a pink rose. No one had noticed John’s presence.
‘He is a good match,’ Agnes was saying. ‘The son of the Marquis of Montferrat. He will bring us powerful allies.’
‘He is a Provençal who cannot speak French properly,’ Sibylla protested. ‘I will not understand a word he is saying.’
‘Then you can put your Latin to good use. Guilhem is fluent.’
‘He is old, Mother.’
‘Hardly. He is thirty-six. And you need an older man to take charge of you. Besides, it is not your decision to make.’ Agnes looked to Baldwin. ‘What do you say?’
‘Sibylla will marry Guilhem.’
‘I shan’t!’ Sibylla pouted. She threw down the rose and almost ran into John as she stormed from the room.
Baldwin frowned, and Agnes placed a hand on his knee. ‘It is what is best for her,’ she said.
Baldwin nodded and then straightened in his chair as he noticed John. ‘John, you have a message for me?’
John stepped forward so that he could see both Baldwin and Agnes. ‘I must speak with you, sire. Alone.’
Agnes laughed. ‘You must speak with him? You forget your place, John.’
John ignored her light tone. ‘It is about Amalric. I know who killed him.’
‘He died of the flux,’ Baldwin protested.
‘He did not.’ John’s eyes were locked on Agnes.
‘Tell us what you have to say, John,’ she said. ‘My son has no secrets from me.’
Baldwin nodded.
‘Very well.’ John spoke to the king, but he kept his eyes on Agnes. ‘Your mother is a liar and a traitor, sire. She murdered your father.’
Agnes did not so much as blink. ‘Careful, John. A baseless accusation like that could cost you your head.’
‘It is not baseless. I have just come from speaking with Archbishop Heraclius. He admitted to purchasing the poison that was used to kill Amalric. He delivered it into your hands, Agnes. You murdered the King.’
‘You are mistaken, John.’
‘I am not!’ John shouted, his anger mounting in the face of her calm denial. ‘You had Reynald kill the poison dealer. He was made lord of Kerak as a reward. Did you also have him send the men who tried to murder me?’
‘I am only the mother of the King, John. I have no power over Reynald.’
‘You lie!’
‘Please, John!’ Baldwin intervened. ‘I am certain my mother had nothing to do with Amalric’s death.’
‘Do not trust her word, sire. She is a liar. She should be cast in irons and thrown in the dungeon.’
‘How dare you!’ Agnes rose and looked down her nose at John. ‘You call me a liar? You are a priest who has betrayed his vow of chastity. You were a crusader who joined the Saracen army. You are the liar, John. If anyone here should be suspected of killing Amalric, it is you.’
‘You duplicitous bitch!’ John stormed from the room. He crossed the palace to the chancell
ery, hoping to find William there, but the room was empty. John locked the door and sat at the broad desk, his head in his hands. There was a knock at the door. No doubt guards had come for him. He had assaulted an archbishop and accused the king’s mother of murder, and he could only guess at what his punishment would be. The knock repeated, louder. John went to the door and opened it.
It was Agnes. Her eyes were moist, as if John’s accusations had actually hurt her. As if she could be hurt. She touched his arm. ‘Do not be angry with me, John.’
He shrugged her hand off. ‘How could you do it, Agnes?’
‘I did not kill him. You must believe me.’ Her green eyes met his. ‘I miss you, John.’
‘What of Amalric de Lusignan? I hear he warms your bed now.’
‘He is an oaf, disagreeable but useful,’ Agnes said, and John turned away in disgust. ‘I am a woman, John. I need men to act for me in the world. But I have nothing to gain by loving you. Think on that.’
John hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I will not fall for your lies. Not again. I will see you punished for what you have done.’
‘You have no proof.’
‘I do not need it. I will undergo ordeal by fire to prove that what I say is true.’
‘You will not pass the trial, John. You will be executed for daring to accuse me publically.’
‘It does not matter. All the world will know the truth.’
Agnes shook her head sadly. ‘Stop this madness before it is too late, John. You do not want to know the truth.’
The bells of Saint Sepulchre were tolling the call to None – the afternoon prayer – when John left the palace. The king had gone to the baths in the Hospitaller quarter, and John was headed there to tell Baldwin of his decision to undergo ordeal by fire. He would be forced to carry a red-hot iron rod for nine paces. Afterwards, his hand would be bandaged, and three days later a priest would examine it. If God had miraculously healed his hand, then that would prove that he had right on his side. If his hand were still red and blistered, then John would be killed.
