Holy War

by Hight, Jack

John spent the remainder of the day pacing before Baldwin’s tent. At first, several dozen anxious knights kept vigil with him, but when the rains returned, shortly after midday, they left one by one. Darkness was falling when Jaquemon finally emerged. He stopped short when he saw John. ‘I did not bleed him. I swear it!’

  ‘How is he?’

  Jaquemon shook his head. ‘The fever is very bad. The King has not woken. Go to your tent. I will send for you if his condition changes.’

  John spent a restless night tossing and turning on the damp ground as the rain beat down on the fabric of his tent. Over the next two days, while the men huddled in their tents attempting to stay dry, John stood in the rain outside Baldwin’s tent. He did not know what else to do. On the third night, John was standing by the tent flap, nodding off as he hunched beneath his cloak, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the doctor.

  ‘He is awake,’ Jaquemon said. ‘He asked for you.’

  The interior of the tent was dark. John felt his way to the king’s bedside and knelt. He could just make out Baldwin’s face. A wet cloth lay across the king’s forehead. His eyes fluttered open.

  ‘John? Is that you?’

  ‘I am here, Your Grace.’

  ‘I – I cannot see, John.’

  ‘I will light the lamp, Your Grace.’

  John started to rise. ‘No! It is not that. I cannot see. I am blind.’

  John felt a pain in his chest. ‘You will recover,’ he told Baldwin, trying to convince himself as much as the king. ‘Once the fever has passed.’

  ‘I cannot move my arms, John.’ Baldwin’s voice trembled. ‘I am afraid.’

  John gripped the king’s hand, unsure of what else to do. ‘You must drink something,’ he said at last. ‘You will feel better afterwards.’ John went to the pot the doctor had prepared and scooped out a cup of the potion. But when he returned to the king’s side, Baldwin was asleep. John set the cup down and sat beside the king. He gently pushed the hair back from Baldwin’s forehead. He looked up as Amalric entered the tent.

  ‘The doctor tells me he may not survive,’ the constable said.

  ‘He will live. He is too stubborn to die.’

  ‘He also said the King is blind and crippled.’

  ‘Perhaps when the fever leaves him—’

  ‘A crippled king cannot rule,’ Amalric said with certainty. ‘We must return to Jerusalem and choose a regent.’

  January 1183: Jerusalem

  Smoke from the bakeries and kitchens of Jerusalem hung in the clear blue sky, showing John where the city lay long before the walls came into view. The sunshine and unseasonably warm January weather were at odds with the sombre mood of the army as it trudged the last miles to the city. Amalric had sent messengers galloping ahead to call for a meeting of the Haute Cour. They would have reached the city in only two days. The main body of the army had taken six days to make the journey from Damascus; they had been slowed by the king, who was carried in a covered litter to spare him the bumps and jolts of the road. Baldwin had awoken twice to murmur incoherently. At least the doctor had managed to feed him a little broth before the king lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  The litter-bearers were now struggling up the hill past rows of grapevines. John spurred ahead. From the top, he could see the north wall of Jerusalem, the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templum Domini rising behind it. Two dozen knights had set out from Saint Stephen’s Gate and were making their way towards the army. The flag of Jerusalem flew over them. Next to it was another banner: on the left a field of blue topped with a band of gold; on the right three red disks on a field of gold. They were the arms of Agnes of Courtenay.

  John urged his horse down the far side of the hill at a canter. He slowed to a walk as he approached Agnes. Her face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. The king’s mother had aged gracefully, but now she looked every one of her forty-nine years. ‘John,’ she greeted him. ‘How is he?’

  Agnes had been his lover once, but she had betrayed him for power. She had bedded the constable Amalric – and likely other men besides – to establish her influence at court. And she had masterminded the plot that led to the death of the previous king. John despised her even as he desired her, but today, in the face of her grief, he could not summon his usual resentment. ‘He is rarely conscious,’ he told her. ‘He has lost his sight and the use of his arms and legs.’

  Agnes blinked back tears. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I will take you to him.’

  John headed back up the hill with Agnes riding beside him. ‘You must be on your guard in Jerusalem,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are those who mean harm to my son, and to those who would protect him.’

  ‘Who? And why tell me this? Do not pretend that you care for me.’

  ‘I do not need to pretend, John. But if you will not believe that, then perhaps you will believe this. My daughter Sibylla wants Baldwin dead. If he dies, then she becomes queen, and her husband Guy will take power, along with his friends Reynald and Heraclius. You would do anything to protect Baldwin, and so would I. That makes us allies, and puts us both in danger.’

  They had reached the litter, and Agnes dismounted and entered to ride with her son. Her men fell in around the carriage. John followed them. As he approached the gate, he took his mace from his saddlebag and hung it from his belt. He did not trust Agnes, but it would not hurt to be cautious.

  At the palace, the courtyard was filled with anxious guards and servants. They watched silently as Agnes stepped out of the litter and began to issue orders. ‘You men,’ she snapped, waving at some of the guards near the door. ‘Bring a stretcher for the King.’ The men returned a moment later, and Baldwin was transferred to the stretcher. ‘Take him to my quarters,’ Agnes instructed. ‘I will care for him myself.’ Four men lifted the stretcher, and she accompanied them into the palace.

  John started to follow, but the guards framing the door crossed their spears to bar his way. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ John demanded. ‘I am the King’s councillor.’ He was about to call out to Agnes when two more guards grabbed his arms from behind.

  ‘Come quietly now,’ one of them whispered in his ear, ‘and we’ll do you no harm, father.’ He reached for John’s mace, but John managed to pull away. He elbowed the man in the throat, then took his mace and swung for the guard holding his left arm. His mace clanged off the man’s helmet, dropping him. Next moment, John felt a blow to the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, and the world went black.

  He jerked awake only a moment later. He felt the back of his head and winced. His hair was wet with blood. The four guards were standing around him. John started to rise when one of them punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

  ‘Leave that man be!’

  John looked up to see Agnes’s brother Joscelin of Courtenay standing in the doorway to the palace.

  The guards stepped away from John. ‘The regent said—’ one of them began.

  ‘I am the seneschal, and I tell you I will see to him.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The guards moved away. Joscelin helped John to rise and kept hold of his arm as he guided him inside the palace.

  ‘Thank you, Jos. What was that about?’ Joscelin led them down a staircase, away from Agnes’s quarters. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The dungeons.’ John stopped and pulled his arm free. Joscelin met his eyes. ‘You can follow me willingly, John, or I can have the guards take you.’

  John’s gaze went to the dagger at Joscelin’s belt. The seneschal was a small man. He could overpower him. With his dagger, he might get past the guards outside and to a horse. But even if he managed to get away, where would he go? John still remembered the look of hatred that Yusuf had given him before he limped off the field at Montgisard. His friend would not take him in. ‘Lead on,’ he said and fell in behind the seneschal. The stairs ended in a long hallway. The air
was chill and damp. Their footsteps echoed loudly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Regent’s orders.’

  ‘The regent?’

  ‘Guy.’

  ‘The Council chose Guy?’ Sibylla’s husband was brave enough, but John was surprised that the native lords had not selected one of their own.

  ‘The Council has not yet met,’ Joscelin said as he led John down another, narrower staircase. ‘Sibylla came up from Ascalon three days ago at the head of two hundred knights led by Reynald of Chatillon. She named her husband regent, and with the army gone to Damascus, there was no one to stop her.’ Joscelin frowned. ‘We had best get used to it. She will be queen when her brother dies.’

  ‘Baldwin will live.’

  ‘You had best hope so. Heraclius has the ear of the queen, and he has sworn you will rot to death before you see the light of day. You made a mistake when you made an enemy of that one.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped before a thick wooden door. Joscelin knocked, and the grille in the centre of the door slid open to reveal a man’s face. He was bald, with sallow skin that hung from his cheeks in folds.

  ‘I bring a prisoner,’ Joscelin told the gaoler. ‘The priest, John of Tatewic.’

  The gaoler grunted and slid the grille shut. There was the clank of a key in the lock, and the door swung open. The gaoler proved to be a block of a man, dressed entirely in boiled leather. He raised a wicked-looking mace with a head of grooved steel. ‘If you make any trouble, I’ll spill your brains on the floor, priest.’ He returned the mace to his belt and began to pat at John’s robes, looking for weapons or coin. After finding neither, he moved to close the door.

  ‘I will do what I can for you, John,’ Joscelin said just before the dungeon door slammed shut.

  March 1183: Jerusalem

  John started awake. His cell was dark; he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He groaned as he sat up. He was sore all over from weeks spent sleeping on the stone floor with only his cloak for covering. He cocked his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Breakfast already? His stomach turned at the thought. Breakfast was rancid boiled wheat with dead weevils in it. At first, John had picked the weevils out. Now, he ate them first. At least they weren’t spoiled.

  The footsteps stopped, and torchlight filtered in through the grille in the cell door. John was rising as the door swung open. He blinked against the light.

  ‘You smell awful, John.’ It was William, torch in hand.

  John embraced him. ‘And you smell sweet as a rose. Thank God you have come.’

  William’s brow furrowed. The cell door shut behind him. ‘I am sorry, John. I have not come to free you.’

  It was as if John were a marionette, and the string holding him up had been cut. He started to fall, but William caught him and helped him to the wall to sit. ‘I have no influence in Jerusalem now. Sibylla and Reynald rule; Guy is their stooge. I have come to say farewell.’

  ‘Farewell? Where are you going?’

  ‘To Rome.’ William sighed. ‘Guy removed me from my post as chancellor, and Heraclius has excommunicated me. I am travelling to Rome to ask the Pope that I be reinstated as Archbishop of Tyre.’

  ‘No. You must stay here. Fight them! When Baldwin recovers—’

  ‘It has been two months now, John. Baldwin is only rarely lucid. The doctors say he will not recover.’

  ‘So you will leave me here to rot?’

  ‘I have done all I could, but I fear any further efforts on my part will only make matters worse for you. And if I do not leave soon, I may be joining you in the dungeons. I am sorry, friend.’

  John’s head fell. William bent down and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You do have friends in the Kingdom. Raymond and Reginald have demanded your release. Agnes, too.’ John’s head jerked up. ‘I do not know what game she plays, but she can be a powerful ally. Be patient. You are a noble and a man of the cloth. They cannot hold you here forever without a trial.’

  The cell door creaked open. The gaoler stood there with mace in hand. ‘Your time is up, priest. You must go, unless you have more coin.’

  William stood. John rose and embraced him again. ‘I will pray for your success in Rome.’

  William stepped from the cell and handed the gaoler a heavy pouch of coins. ‘This is for my friend. See that he is treated well.’

  The gaoler grunted affirmatively.

  William looked back to John. ‘God save you, friend.’

  Chapter 3

  April 1183: Diyarbakir

  ‘I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.’ Yusuf looked to his right and murmured, ‘Peace be upon you.’ He looked left and repeated the phrase. He rose, his morning prayers completed, and stepped outside his tent. The hundreds of tiny plates of his golden jawshan armour flashed in the light of the newly risen sun. Before him, the Tigris River valley was covered in a low mist pierced by the roofs of hundreds of tents. Beyond them, his men had drawn up ranks on the plain. The thousand closest to Yusuf were mounted, but the rest were on foot and the mist came up to their chests. Spears as numerous as blades of grass poked up from the ranks.

  Beyond the army rose the black walls of Diyarbakir. They were fifteen feet thick and reached a height of forty feet. Massive towers studded the wall and framed each of the city’s four gates. They were the most impressive fortifications Yusuf had ever seen, and they had made the emir of Diyarbakir bold. Yusuf had spent the last months isolating Aleppo by subduing the towns and fortresses between it and Mosul. The cities of Edessa, Saruj, Rakka and Nisbin had surrendered with hardly a fight. But Ishfaq of Diyarbakir had decided to resist. Yusuf would make an example of him. After today, none of the other minor emirs would dare oppose Yusuf.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Malik,’ Qaraqush called as he approached along the spine of the hill with Ubadah at his side. Behind them came Muhammad. The carefully groomed emir of Hisn Kaifa had soft hands, an immaculately trimmed beard and a tongue of silver. He looked uncomfortable in a coat of heavy mail. He was one of three emirs of Al-Jazirah who had joined Yusuf in return for new lands. Muhammad had been promised Diyarbakir.

  Saruj had gone to Gökböri, the governor of Harran, who was huffing along after Muhammad. He was as fat as Muhammad was thin, with red cheeks and a curly black beard that hung down to his ample belly. ‘A beautiful day for a battle!’ he declared with a grin as he tucked his beard inside his suit mail. ‘Been growing this since I was a boy. Don’t want it to get cut off, Malik.’

  ‘You know what they say about men with long beards,’ muttered Nu’man. The emir of Al-Birah was short, almost a dwarf, with pinched features and a scowl that never seemed to leave his face. He wore a suit of oft-repaired mail that looked to have seen a dozen battles, and strapped to his back a massive battle-axe. Yusuf had given Nu’man the rich city of Edessa, and he had not regretted it. He would not have wanted the man as a foe.

  ‘And what would you know about the size of my cock?’ Gökböri asked the short man. ‘Did your mother give you a full report? Hah!’

  Nu’man’s scowl deepened. Qaraqush guffawed but then grew serious as he turned to Yusuf. ‘The men await your command.’

  Yusuf kept his instructions simple, so there would be no misunderstandings. ‘When the horn sounds, Ubadah will lead the first wave. His men will strike the western wall, forcing the defenders to spread themselves thin. The torchbearers will strike there.’ Yusuf pointed to where three weeks of tunnelling and bombardment had opened a ten-foot gap in the wall. The city’s defenders had built a wooden wall atop the rubble. ‘Once that wall begins to burn, the drums will signal for the second wave to attack. Qaraqush and Gökböri, you will lead five hundred men through the gap and open the gate.’

  Muhammad stepped forward. ‘As Diyarbakir has been promised to me, I request the honour of leading the—’

  ‘I will lead the cavalry charge myself,’ Yusuf said. ‘Once we
have taken control of the central square, Muhammad will move on to secure the north gate and Nu’man the south. I will take the east gate. You all understand your roles?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Take your positions, and Allah yasalmak.’

  As his emirs departed, Yusuf went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He checked to see that his shield, light spear, bow and quiver were all in place, and looked up to Diyarbakir. The sun had risen clear of the horizon and was gilding the city’s tallest minaret with golden light. On the plain before the city, Ubadah was galloping towards the front ranks of the army. His red standard dipped when he was in position.

  Yusuf nodded to Saqr. ‘Signal the attack.’

  Haa-room! Saqr blew a piercing blast on a curved ram’s horn. Before the sound had faded, the front ranks of Yusuf’s army were already surging forward, spreading out across the golden plain like ink spilling over parchment. A cloud of arrows flew from the wall. Most fell harmlessly to the ground or thumped into the shields that the foot-soldiers had raised over their heads. The stones hurled by catapults mounted on the towers struck with more devastating effect. They splintered shields, crushed helmets and ripped off limbs. But the catapults were too few to slow the charge. Yusuf’s men reached the wall and began to throw up ladders. Other men hurled grappling hooks and climbed up the ropes. A soft breeze from the east brought Yusuf the din of battle – screams of pain and rage mixed with the clang of steel upon steel.

  The torchbearers had reached the breach and were hurling torches at the foot of the temporary wall. The wood began to smoke, but then the defenders tipped several cauldrons of water over the wall and extinguished the flames. Yusuf’s face remained impassive, but inside he was cursing. The emir of Diyarbakir was a clever man. He had been prepared.

  ‘Shall I signal the retreat, Malik?’ Saqr asked.

  ‘No. We will give Ubadah more time.’

  Yusuf had spotted his nephew. He thought the red cloth that Ubadah tied about his helmet was a foolish affectation, but Ubadah claimed it helped his troops to rally to him in battle, much like Yusuf’s golden armour. It seemed to be working now. Ubadah was on horseback only a dozen yards from the breach. He waved his sword, gathering several dozen men around him, and then pointed his sword to the wall. Some of the men began shooting arrows at the defenders while the rest ran forward and threw grappling hooks over the wooden barrier. But instead of climbing, they began to pull on the ropes. The wooden wall shook, then tilted outwards and collapsed.