Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

  John tossed his sword aside and then gripped Yusuf under his arms and pulled him to his feet. ‘It is only one battle, friend. Live to fight another.’ He shoved Yusuf away, towards the hills to the south. ‘Go!’

  Yusuf hesitated for a moment and then limped away. John watched until he was sure his friend would reach the hills safely before turning and kneeling beside the king. Baldwin’s face was masked in blood. John carefully removed his dented helmet. There was an angry wound above the right temple, but it did not look fatal.

  Baldwin’s eyes fluttered open. ‘John?’

  ‘I am here, sire.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You have won the day. The enemy is fled.’

  Baldwin reached up and touched the wound on his head. He winced. ‘How did I come to be here?’

  ‘You were knocked unconscious.’

  Baldwin blinked, then nodded, remembering. ‘I thought he would kill me—You saved my life, John.’

  ‘I did my duty, sire.’

  ‘I will not forget it. I owe my life, and this victory, to you.’

  Chapter 25

  NOVEMBER 1177: MONTGISARD

  John and Baldwin walked past scores of fallen Saracens as they crossed the plain towards where the first Christian tents had been erected. Most of the Franks were still running down the enemy, but a few hundred had begun to set up camp. Cooks were starting fires while other men gathered booty from their fallen enemies and piled it in camp, to be divided later. The men knelt as Baldwin passed on the way to his tent.

  ‘Hail, Baldwin!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Long live the King!’ another cried. ‘Long live the saviour of Jerusalem!’

  John followed Baldwin into the tent. Reynald was already there, giving orders as to how the camp should be set up. His nose was swollen and crusted with blood. ‘Sire!’ he cried. ‘Thank God you are well.’ Then he saw John and scowled. ‘Guards! Seize that man!’

  Two of Reynald’s men grabbed John’s arms.

  ‘Stop!’ Baldwin roared. ‘Release him.’

  ‘He struck me, sire,’ Reynald protested. ‘He broke my nose.’

  Baldwin looked to John, who shrugged. ‘He was trying to signal the retreat.’

  ‘Is this true, Reynald?’

  Reynald ignored the question. ‘I am the regent. This man assaulted me. He should be placed in irons.’

  ‘John saved my life.’ Baldwin drew himself up straight and looked down his nose at Reynald. ‘If anyone should be placed in irons, it is you, Reynald. Had I followed your advice, Jerusalem would now be in the hands of the Saracens.’

  ‘But sire—’

  ‘Silence! I’ll not hear any more of your excuses. You are my regent no longer. You may go.’

  Reynald did not move. His face shaded red and his hands balled into fists.

  ‘I said, go,’ Baldwin repeated. ‘Or shall I have the guards show you out?’

  Reynald gave a perfunctory bow and stormed from the tent, followed by his men. Baldwin went to a stool and sat, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees. John suddenly remembered how ill the king was. ‘A doctor!’ he shouted. ‘Bring the King’s doctor!’

  ‘I am well, John,’ Baldwin replied. ‘Only bring me some water.’

  John poured a glass and handed it to the king. ‘What now?’ he asked. ‘Who shall you appoint as regent?’

  ‘No one. I shall rule alone.’

  ‘Your mother will not like it, sire.’

  ‘She will have no choice.’ Baldwin grinned. ‘You heard the men; I am the saviour of Jerusalem, John. She dare not oppose me now.’

  Night had fallen but Yusuf stumbled on in the dark, tripping frequently over rocks, thorny shrubs tearing at his tunic. He glanced up at the stars to orient himself, then continued, walking south along the floor of a wadi, his boots sucking in the mud. His knee ached and he longed for sleep. But the night was chill, and if he stopped he would suffer from the cold. Worse, the Franks might find him.

  He had escaped from the field of battle and retreated into the hills. As he walked south he had seen the occasional corpse of one of his men, but he had met no one living. He did not know how far the Franks would pursue his men, but he did not plan to find out. He would keep on the move for as long as he could. A hundred miles of desert lay between him and Farama, the easternmost outpost in Egypt, but he would find a way to cross it. He had to.

  The moon rose to bathe the landscape in silvery light, and Yusuf moved more surely now that he could see his footing. But he was tired, so very tired. The sky was just beginning to lighten when he collapsed, unable to go any further. He fell asleep instantly, despite the cold that tinged his lips blue and left him shivering.

  He awoke blinking against bright sunlight. He rose stiffly and gingerly put weight on his injured knee. He was in a hollow between two hills, the bases of which were lined with low, scrubby trees. Not twenty feet away a camel stood chewing its cud. It had a harness on its back to carry supplies, but whatever its cargo had been, it was gone now. Yusuf guessed that the camel had escaped from the baggage train during the battle. The lead rope that hung from its head had become tangled in the branches of one of the trees. The camel tugged on the rope for a moment but could not break free. It ceased struggling and resumed chewing its cud.

  Yusuf edged towards the beast. ‘Easy, friend,’ he said softly. ‘Easy.’

  The camel regarded him impassively. Yusuf patted its neck while he untangled the rope. When he had freed it from the branches he led the camel a few feet away. ‘La-that!’ Yusuf commanded, and the camel knelt. Yusuf swung on to its back, the lead rope still in his hand. ‘Fauq!’ The camel lifted its back legs, then its front. Yusuf flicked the lead rope. ‘Yalla!’ he called, and the camel moved off.

  By noon he had left the hills behind and entered amongst the towering dunes of the Sinai desert. It was autumn, and the brutal, ovenlike heat of the Sinai was gone. But the desert was still hot, and sweat was soon dripping from Yusuf’s forehead. He tore a piece of fabric from the hem of his tunic and wrapped it around his head to keep off the sun. He could do nothing about his lack of water. He had had no food or drink for more than a day. By the time the sun set his mouth was sticky and dry, and he had developed a dull headache. That night he huddled next to the camel for warmth.

  He rode under a bright sun the following day. Each time he reached the crest of one of the towering dunes, he hoped to see some sign of his men. He saw nothing. The pain in his head was worse now. It felt like a nail being driven ever deeper into his brain. His throat was parched and his lips were cracked. It became difficult to focus on the path ahead, and he began to nod off, sleeping while sitting upright. Near evening, while climbing a steep dune, he slumped from the camel’s back, waking with a start as he hit the sand. He found himself rolling down the slope. He spread his arms and legs and slid to a stop. The camel was thirty yards off. It looked back at him for a moment before it trotted away.

  ‘Wait!’ Yusuf shouted hoarsely. The words were hard to force through his dry throat. ‘Waqqaf!’

  The camel disappeared over the shoulder of the dune. Yusuf rose and stumbled after it. When he reached the crest there was no sign of the beast. He followed its tracks. It was difficult walking in the shifting sand. His knee ached. He was dizzy with thirst and exhaustion. Eventually he lost the camel’s tracks. He staggered on until sunset, when his legs buckled. He slumped down on the warm sand and fell asleep.

  ‘Yusuf!’

  He awoke with a start. It was nearly dark, and a figure stood before him in the twilight. It was a thin man, straight-backed and with short, greying hair. Yusuf blinked and sat up straight. ‘Father?’

  The man nodded. ‘You disappoint me, Son.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father.’ Yusuf felt a sudden overwhelming shame for having ordered his father’s death. ‘Forgive me.’

  Ayub waved away his plea. ‘My death is not important.’

  Yusuf frowned, trying to marshal his fuzzy thoughts. �
�Why have you come back?’

  ‘You have betrayed the faith, Yusuf. You have strayed from the path set out for you by Allah.’

  ‘It is not my fault. Turan—’

  ‘His incompetence is no excuse. You put too much faith in your friends and family, my son. If they fail, you must push them aside. Nothing must stand in the way of driving out the Franks. That is all that matters. There can be no peace with the Franks. They are a pestilence. They must be eliminated.’

  A pestilence. Yusuf thought of John. Not all Franks were evil.

  ‘Even your friend has betrayed you to save his own,’ his father said as if in reply to Yusuf’s thoughts. ‘You cannot trust the Franks. You must drive them into the sea. Allah has spared you for this purpose, my son. Do not fail him.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘I understand, Father.’

  Ayub turned and walked away.

  ‘Wait! Father!’ Yusuf rose and stumbled after him. He gained on his father. He reached out to touch him, then collided with him. Yusuf felt himself falling backwards, but strong hands caught him and lowered him gently to the sand.

  ‘Father,’ he whispered.

  ‘It is I, Malik. Qaraqush.’

  Yusuf blinked. The grizzled mamluk was leaning over him. ‘Are you well, Saladin?’

  ‘Allah,’ Yusuf breathed, his voice rasping in his dry throat.

  Qaraqush turned away. ‘Water!’ he called. A moment later he held a waterskin to Yusuf’s lips. Yusuf drank greedily, the cool water a blessed relief. ‘Are you well, Malik?’ Qaraqush asked again.

  Yusuf nodded, and when he spoke his voice was firm. ‘I have seen the will of Allah.’

  DECEMBER 1177: CAIRO

  Yusuf rode up to the gates of Cairo at the head of two-dozen mamluks. Qaraqush had told him that after the battle these were all the men he had managed to gather. Thousands had been killed by the Franks or lost in the desert as they struggled back to Egypt. Yusuf’s mighty army had vanished like the morning dew under the hot sun.

  When the guards at the gate saw Yusuf, they paled. The mouth of one of the men opened, but he was unable to speak.

  ‘What is it, man?’ Qaraqush demanded. ‘You look as if you had seen a ghost.’

  ‘You live, Malik,’ the guard managed. He knelt.

  ‘Allah has spared me,’ Yusuf told him.

  The word spread quickly. As he rode through the streets, people came running. They called his name. ‘Saladin! Saladin! Malik! Malik!’ By the time he reached the palace a crowd surrounded him. They parted, allowing Yusuf to enter. He found Selim waiting and Ubadah at his side. Both wore the indigo robe of men in mourning.

  Selim grinned broadly. ‘I cannot believe it!’ There were tears in his eyes as he embraced Yusuf. ‘It has been days since the last men returned from the battle. We had thought you dead.’

  ‘He nearly was,’ Qaraqush said. ‘I found him wandering in the desert. He would not have lasted another day under the sun.’

  Selim clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘We will have a feast to celebrate your return.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘No. There is work to be done. You must rebuild our army. Spend whatever it takes. I want a force stronger than the one I marched on Jerusalem. You have five years.’

  Selim started to protest but then saw the look in his brother’s eyes and nodded.

  ‘Now, I wish to see my family,’ Yusuf told them.

  He went to the harem. Shamsa was waiting with tears in her eyes. She rushed forward to embrace Yusuf and buried her head against his shoulder.

  ‘I thought I had lost you!’ she sobbed.

  Yusuf returned her embrace stiffly. ‘I was spared.’

  ‘Spared?’

  ‘I was lost in the desert, but Allah spared me for a purpose. I will drive the Franks into the sea.’

  Shamsa pulled away. ‘At what cost, Yusuf? The people—’

  ‘The people must be prepared to suffer to achieve the will of Allah,’ Yusuf said firmly. ‘As am I.’

  ‘Is it Allah’s will, or yours, Husband?’

  ‘My will is His. I have seen what I must do, Shamsa. I will not be swayed.’

  There was a moment of silence as Shamsa examined Yusuf anxiously, trying to understand the change that had come over him. Finally she spoke. ‘You will attack the Kingdom again?’

  ‘In time. But to conquer them, we will need more men than Egypt alone can provide. Mosul and Aleppo must be made to join my kingdom.’

  ‘Aleppo?’ Shamsa’s eyes widened. ‘What of Asimat? She is your wife. Al-Salih is your adopted son.’

  Yusuf met her eyes. ‘Allah has spoken to me, Wife. I will do what needs to be done.’

  Historical Note

  The story of Saladin Yusuf ibn Ayub’s rise to become king of Egypt is well documented from both the Christian and Muslim sides. The Egyptian vizier Shawar was every bit as savvy as I depict him, and he paid for his double-dealing with his life. Yusuf’s uncle Shirkuh did become vizier only to die suddenly – from overeating, the chroniclers claim. Yusuf followed him as vizier. Later he became king and put down the Nubian rebellion by burning their barracks. Nur ad-Din was wary of Yusuf’s growing power. He sent Yusuf’s father to curb the young king, and while Yusuf’s decision to murder Ayub is my addition, it is true that Yusuf had a public argument with his father only days before Ayub died in a hunting accident. Nur ad-Din was preparing for war with Egypt when he died suddenly. Yusuf did take Damascus and marry Nur ad-Din’s widow, Asimat, afterwards. In 1177 Yusuf invaded the Kingdom and came within miles of Jerusalem before being routed by King Baldwin at Montgisard.

  John’s story is also based in fact. The court of Jerusalem was just as riven by intrigue and infighting as I depict it. Agnes of Courtenay had many husbands, and many lovers, if the chronicle of William of Tyre is to be believed. History has often portrayed her as a meddling harpy, and while my account is not exactly flattering, I did strive to add some humanity to a woman who was forcibly divorced from her husband and then kept from her young children. The real Amalric did have a mild stutter and was prone to fits of uncontrollable laughter. He died suddenly, purportedly of the flux (dysentery), at a particularly inopportune time for the Kingdom. The plot to murder him is my own invention, but it is true that after his death, Reynald became lord of Oultrejourdain, Heraclius was named Archbishop of Caesarea and Agnes rose to a position of influence at the court. And there is nothing fictional about the poison that I have Baldwin use. Al-Zarnikh – or arsenic, as we call it – was well known in the Arab world and does cause symptoms similar to the flux, while also leading to loss of hair and yellowing of the fingernails.

  The history of these years is so rich that I could not include everything. I combined the Egyptian campaigns of 1164 and 1167 into one. Yusuf actually defeated the combined armies of Mosul and Aleppo twice (first at the Horns of Hama in 1175 and second at Tell al-Sultan in 1176); he besieged Aleppo twice; and he was attacked by the Hashashin twice. In each case, I combined the events in order to avoid repetitiveness. In one notable case, I manipulated dates in order to streamline the story. Reynald de Chatillon was actually freed in late 1175, over a year after the date I indicate, as part of the agreement that brought the Kingdom on to the side of Gumushtagin. He was made lord of Oultrejourdain a short time later, much as I describe.

  These changes aside, I have endeavoured to remain true to the chronology of events and the texture of the times. Even the most incredible elements of Kingdom are based in fact. A terrible sandstorm really did strike Shirkuh’s army as it was crossing the Sinai, although I shifted the date of the storm from 1167 to 1168. The catacombs that John explores outside Alexandria still exist. The Kom el-Shoqafa, or Mound of Shards, was built by the Romans and filled with the dead over a period of four centuries. The bottom levels are now flooded and have never been fully explored. The Nizari Ismailis were also very real, as was their fortress stronghold of Masyaf. They disliked the name Hashashin, which, depending on the source consulted, was derived from asasiyun (f
aithful to the foundations of the faith) or hishishi (rabble), or perhaps meant ‘users of hashish’. They preferred to call their assassins fidais, meaning ‘devotees’.

  Although it was seldom invoked, the law did allow men like John to appeal convictions before the High Court by fighting each of those who had voted against them. Most trials by combat were fought with staffs, not swords, but they were still violent affairs in which combatants were occasionally beaten to death. The trial by fire that John decides to undergo towards the end of the book was one of several forms of trial by ordeal, and actually one of the least dangerous. Trial by water, in which the defendant was cast into a pool of water and found innocent if he or she sank, sometimes led to drowning. The life of a canon was much as I depict it, although John is made a canon unusually quickly in my story – typically, laymen first spent at least eighteen months as an acolyte. Canons often lived in town, frequently with mistresses, and allowed their vicars to take their place at the canonical prayers. They were rarely present in church, save for Penny Masses, and when they were forced to lead Mass, they often shortened the service by reading a line here and there from the prayer book, confident that their parishioners spoke no Latin and would not know any better.

  The world of medieval Syria and Egypt is a fascinating one. And its conflicts live on. The Crusades still evoke powerful memories: memories in the West of armour-clad knights on a mission to reclaim the Holy Land; memories in the East of savages from beyond the sea. Kingdom is of course a work of fiction, but I hope that it nevertheless demonstrates that, then – as today – there were good and bad men, truth and falsehood, on both sides of the conflict.