by Hight, Jack
‘It is I.’ The voice belonged to Raymond.
‘Were you seen leaving the palace?’
‘I think not.’
‘Good.’ John rapped softly at the gate – two knocks, then another, then three more. The gate opened a crack. ‘The Queen is in Nablus,’ John whispered, and Aestan pulled the gate open. The sergeant wore mail and had a sword in his hand. ‘Aestan will show you to the crypt,’ John told Raymond. ‘Your men can wait in the courtyard. The others will join you soon, God willing.’
Balian came next. He greeted John with a smile and slipped through the gate. Then came Reginald. ‘I am too old for this skulking about,’ he grumbled in greeting. The few hairs Agnes’s former husband had left had greyed long ago.
‘I am glad you came,’ John told him.
‘Hmph. Is Humphrey here?’
‘He will arrive soon.’
‘I pray he does, or you are risking our necks for nothing.’ Reginald went inside, leaving John to wait.
The brothers finished chanting nocturnes, and still Humphrey did not come. John began to pace. Finally, he heard footsteps. A lone figure strode towards the gate. He stepped into a pool of moonlight, which illuminated fleshy cheeks and a weak chin. Humphrey. He looked more a prosperous merchant than a king, yet all their hopes rested on him.
‘Thank God you have come,’ John greeted him.
‘John, I must—’
‘Best to talk inside.’
Once they were inside the gate, John turned to Aestan. ‘Keep a careful watch. No one is to enter. No one.’
‘Yes, domne.’
John led Humphrey across the courtyard and into the church. Dark shadows shifted in the flickering light shed by a candle on the altar. John took the candle and led them down narrow steps beneath the apse. At the bottom, they found themselves in a tunnel cut into the rock on which the church was built. John moved forward, stooping to avoid bumping his head. A door appeared after a few feet. The man guarding it nodded to John and pulled it open. John and Humphrey stepped into the church’s crypt. It was a small room with burial niches cut into the walls. Half of them were occupied with stone sarcophagi holding the remains of former abbots. One day, John would be buried with them.
But tonight his business was with the living. Raymond, Balian and Reginald waited around a stone table. As the guard shut the door, all eyes turned to John. He had summoned them. It was for him to speak first. He took a deep breath.
‘Thank you all for coming. You know why I have asked you here. We agreed to make Sibylla queen on the condition that Guy would not take the throne beside her. She has betrayed her promise to us. We cannot allow this outrage to stand. The Kingdom is in greater danger than ever before, and Guy is not the man to defend it from Saladin.’
Everyone but Humphrey nodded. ‘Fit or not, Guy has been crowned,’ he said.
‘An empty gesture,’ John replied. ‘Until he remarries Sibylla, he is no king. We must not let that marriage happen.’
Reginald rubbed his bald head. ‘She is queen now. That ceremony was valid enough. And we promised she could pick her husband. I do not like it any more than you, John, but if we move against her, we are committing treason.’
‘No,’ Raymond said. ‘We are protecting the Kingdom. John is right; Guy is no leader of men. He changes his mind each time the wind blows. If we allow him to remain on the throne, then we betray our oaths to defend the people.’
Reginald looked from Raymond to John. ‘What would you have us do? Rebel? We dare not. Saladin controls Mosul now.’
‘All the more reason to act now,’ John countered swiftly. ‘Saladin is coming for Jerusalem. Do you want Guy in command when he arrives?’
‘The truce still has two years to run,’ Humphrey noted.
‘When Guy was regent, he did not rule two months before he set Reynald to violate our treaty with Saladin. Do you want to risk it happening again?’
‘What is our alternative?’ Balian spoke now. ‘Raymond as regent again?’
Raymond shook his head. ‘I have no wish to rule, nor do I have a claim.’
‘Humphrey does.’ John turned to the young man. ‘You are married to Sibylla’s sister Isabella. Your forefathers have served the Kingdom faithfully since the beginning. It should be you on the throne.’
John’s pronouncement was met with silence. He stepped back from the table. He has said his part. Now it was up to them.
Reginald rubbed his head again. He turned to Humphrey. ‘I knew your grandfather, the constable Humphrey. He was a great warrior and an honest man. If you are half the man he was, then you will be a worthy king. If you make a bid for the throne, I will support you, Humphrey.’
‘As would I,’ Balian echoed. Raymond nodded his assent. All eyes turned to Humphrey.
‘I – I do not know,’ he ventured. ‘It is Sibylla who has been crowned, not Isabella.’
‘And what sort of queen will Sibylla be?’ Raymond demanded. ‘She has stripped your ancestral lands from you and given them to Joscelin. Will you allow her to disgrace your family?’
‘I was compensated for Toron.’
Reginald snorted. ‘With gold. Is your honour for sale, then?’
Humphrey bristled. ‘Do not speak to me of honour, old man. Reynald is my father-in-law, and he supports the Queen. Would you have me turn against my own kin? Is that the honour of which you speak?’
‘And what of your wife, my stepdaughter?’ Balian asked. ‘She is your kin, too. Would you deny her the throne that is rightfully hers?’
Humphrey said nothing. He began to fidget with the clasp of his cloak.
‘Speak, man!’ Reginald urged.
‘I tried to tell you earlier, John. I – I cannot. Sibylla and Guy have been crowned before the eyes of man and God. It is not for me to undo what God has done.’ He took a candle from the table and left the room. John could hear his footsteps echoing on the steps up from the crypt.
Reginald cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it is for the best. The boy is not his grandfather. He has no backbone.’ Reginald raised the hood of his cloak. ‘I am off to bed, sirs. I must rise early tomorrow to lick Guy’s royal arse.’
‘Reginald speaks true,’ Balian said. ‘We must all make peace with the King.’ He followed Reginald out.
Raymond placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘You tried, John.’
‘I failed. What will you do?’
‘I will not swear loyalty to Guy, no matter what threats he levels.’
‘There will be more than just threats. He will come for you.’
‘My castle at Tiberias is strong.’
‘Not strong enough to hold against the army of the Kingdom. You need allies.’ John took a deep breath, for what he was about to say was treason. Yet he saw no other way. ‘Saladin would support you.’
Raymond looked as if he had been slapped. ‘No, John. I will not betray the Kingdom.’
‘Nor would I ask you to. Ally with Saladin to protect your lands, nothing more.’
Raymond rubbed his beard. ‘I will think on it. What of you, John?’
‘There is no future for me in Jerusalem. Sibylla wishes me dead. She has made no secret of that. I will come with you, if you will have me.’
‘You are always welcome in my hall.’ Raymond forced a smile. ‘Perhaps fortune will smile on us yet. As Humphrey said, the truce with Saladin still has two years to run. Much can happen in two years.’
Chapter 9
January 1187: Damascus
‘Your son Az-Zahir writes from Aleppo to say that the Seljuks are gathering in the north, Malik.’
Yusuf turned away from the window of his private study. His secretary sat cross-legged before him, a writing desk balanced on his lap. ‘What else, Imad ad-Din?’
‘The caliph An-Nasir has sent an envoy to congratulate you on your overlordship of Mosul and to encourage you to make war on the Franks.’
‘Hah. You mean to encourage me to send the gifts he feels are his due.’
‘As you say, Malik. Your brother writes from Egypt. The Almohads are moving in the west. They threaten to retake Tripoli.’
‘If it falls, it falls. Tell my brother that peace with the Almohad caliph is more important than Tripoli.’
‘And the rest, Malik? The Seljuk army numbers in the thousands. Perhaps it would be best to delay your pilgrimage to Mecca until your borders are secure?’
‘No. I have delayed long enough.’ The hajj was a duty that every Muslim was expected to fulfil at least once in life. There would be no better time than now. The truce with the Franks still had two years to run. After that, he would go to war. Yusuf wanted Allah’s blessing first. He already wore the clothes of a pilgrim – sandals and the ihram, a sort of toga comprising two white sheets held at the middle with a sash. The ihram was meant to demonstrate that all pilgrims were equal before Allah. It was also a reminder to focus on pure thoughts. Yusuf should not be conducting affairs of state in it, but he had no choice. He was a king. He could not shed his responsibilities as easily as his royal robes.
‘Write to Az-Zahir,’ he told Imad ad-Din. ‘Tell him that if the Seljuks march against us, he is to wait for reinforcements before attacking. Al-Mashtub will lead the army of Damascus north to add to his strength. As for the Caliph’s envoy, my son Al-Afdal will meet with them. See that he sends the envoy on his way with the appropriate gifts. Fifty horses and a hundred silk robes should be sufficient.’
‘Yes, Malik.’
‘Anything else?’ Yusuf asked, and the secretary shook his head. ‘Then go.’
Yusuf returned to the window. It was a clear winter evening and he could see to the walls and the plain beyond, where hundreds of cooking fires winked in the twilight. Men and women from as far as Homs and Edessa had come to join the royal caravan. Tomorrow, Yusuf would lead them south on the pilgrim road. It was paved near Damascus, but for the rest of the journey it was nothing more than a track in the desert, formed by the passage of countless feet over countless years. Forts along the route, many dating to Roman times, would provide shelter and water. They would pass through Mafraq, Zarqa, Jiza and Qal’at al-Hasa. They would ride within twenty miles of the crusader castles of Kerak and Shawbak before reaching Ayla. Even accounting for the winter rains, which each year turned the floor of the great Wadi Al-Hasa south of Kerak into a sea of mud, the journey would take no more than two weeks. From Ayla, Yusuf and his private guard would take a ship for the week-long journey down the Red Sea to the port of Jeddah. From there, it was a two-day ride to the Holy City. He would arrive a week before the start of the festivals associated with the hajj. Yusuf was taking the sea route to save time. He had already sent much of his household – including his sister Zimat and her two eldest daughters – ahead with a caravan led by Al-Muqaddam. They would take the safer land route, heading south from Ma’an instead of going on to Ayla.
‘Habibi.’ Shamsa stood in the doorway of his study. Her caftan of tight-fitting red silk showed off a form that was still slim and athletic, despite giving him two sons and three daughters. And her dark eyes still held that mixture of challenge and invitation that had first drawn him to her. She came to his side and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I shall miss you, my love.’
‘I shall return before the barley is ripe in the fields.’
‘You make too much haste. The Red Sea is dangerous. Imad ad-Din speaks of pirates, of hidden reefs that tear the bottoms from ships.’
‘If you would see me sooner, then you should be glad of the route I have chosen. Travelling by sea will save me two weeks.’
She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘You could stay.’
‘I will only be gone for two months.’ Two months free of the daily burdens of rule. On the road to Mecca, he would be just one more pilgrim. He could feel the tension in his gut easing at the thought. He kissed Shamsa’s forehead. ‘I have been gone much longer on campaign. Why are you now so reluctant to see me go?’
‘Perhaps because you go to war only reluctantly,’ she pouted. ‘You could at least pretend you will miss me.’
‘You could come with me, Shamsa.’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘I have been on the hajj, with my father just after I became a woman. I will never forget the crowds – thousands of sweating men packed together in the scorching desert heat. More people than stars in the sky, it seemed to me. During the stoning of the devil, a man missed one of the columns and his rock struck me in the face. I had a black eye for weeks.’
Ramy al-Jamarat, the stoning of the devil, commemorated the trials suffered by Abraham on the way to sacrificing his son Isaac. The story went that when Abraham was leaving the city of Mina, only a few miles east of Mecca, he came to a rocky defile where the devil appeared to him beside a column of rock. Abraham threw seven stones to drive him away. The devil appeared again beside another heap of stones, and then again. Each time, Abraham drove him away with seven stones. The stoning was re-enacted on the third day of the hajj, and then again in the following days. It was one of the most dangerous parts of the hajj, both because of the crushing crowds and the flying rocks.
Yusuf gently brushed Shamsa’s cheek. ‘No one would dare to cast a stone at you now.’
‘Perhaps not, but even you cannot protect me from the hot sun or the stink of the crowd. I will stay.’ Her hand moved down his side and she began to untie the sash that held up the lower half of his ihram. ‘I shall have to give you a reason to hurry back to me.’
He caught her hand. ‘I wear the ihram. My thoughts should be on Allah.’
Shamsa smiled wickedly. ‘You will be thanking him soon enough.’ She kissed his neck as she finished untying the sash. She kissed his chest and next his stomach as she knelt before him.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Yalla!’ Yusuf cursed. ‘Will they not leave me one moment of peace?’
Shamsa rose. ‘I will be waiting for you,’ she said as she stepped into his bedroom.
Yusuf secured his ihram around his waist. ‘Enter!’
‘Malik.’ Imad ad-Din’s face was pale. He clutched a scrap of paper in his hand. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’ He held out the paper.
Yusuf’s jaw clenched as he read. ‘I will kill the bastard myself! I swear it.’
‘Who?’ Shamsa stood in the doorway to the bedroom. ‘What has happened?’
Yusuf was too angry to speak. It was Imad ad-Din who answered. ‘The one called the Wolf raided the pilgrim caravan from Damascus. Al-Muqaddam and his men fought him off , but not without many losses. Reynald has thrown his captives in dungeons at Kerak. He raped and murdered many others—’ Imad ad-Din’s voice trailed off .
‘My sister was one of them.’ Yusuf’s voice was flat. ‘Zimat is dead.’
Shamsa went to him. ‘I am sorry, my love.’
Yusuf shrugged her off. ‘This is not the time for sorrow. Reynald’s butchery has broken our treaty with the Franks. Imad ad-Din, send letters to every corner of the kingdom. Tell my emirs to come with all their men. The hajj can wait. Come summer, we are going to war.’
July 1187: La Sephorie
Sergeants in mail and native Christians in vests of leather or padded cotton stepped reluctantly aside as John and Raymond rode into the Christian camp at La Sephorie. The Saracens had crossed the Jordan, and a mighty army had gathered to face them. The men’s angry faces were lit by the flickering light of cooking fires. Some spat as Raymond passed. Others grumbled curses. A pair of Lombards made the sign of the evil eye, touching their thumb and forefinger and shaking them.
‘They look at me as if I killed the Templars myself,’ Raymond muttered. ‘Cresson was not my doing. If Gerard were not such a rash fool—’
John placed a hand on Raymond’s arm. The grumbling amongst the men had grown louder. ‘Best to keep such thoughts to yourself,’ he said in a low voice. Right or wrong, these men blamed Raymond for the massacre at Cresson. It was not a good idea to speak ill of those who had died or been captured there.
It had been an
unexpected disaster. Three months ago, when Guy had gathered an army to force Raymond to recognize him as king, Raymond had looked to Saladin for support. Saladin had sent his son Al-Afdal with several thousand men. Raymond had never intended to bring the Saracens into battle against his fellow Franks. They were a bargaining chip, nothing more, a way to force Guy to stand down.
But everything had gone horribly wrong. Raymond had given Al-Afdal permission to ride across his lands to scout. On their way back, a troop of Templars and Hospitallers had attacked them at Cresson. The Templar Grand Master, Gerard, led the knights in a charge, leaving his foot-soldiers behind. But Al-Afdal’s retreat had only been feigned. The Saracens turned and slaughtered the two halves of the Frankish force separately. Every single knight was killed, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers amongst them. Gerard was taken prisoner. When he was ransomed a few weeks later, he returned to the Kingdom raging against Raymond and blaming him for the disaster. He was not alone in calling for Raymond’s head.
Now, the Saracens had invaded with an army larger than any John had ever seen. Raymond had put aside his hatred of Guy and marched his men to join the Christian army at La Sephorie. John had joined him. Judging from the murderous looks of the men they had passed, they might well be riding to their deaths. They were through the camp now and at the base of the hill on which the squat keep stood. They dismounted, and John handed his reins to Aestan.
‘You’re not likely to receive a warm welcome, domne,’ the sergeant said in a low voice. ‘There is still time to leave. We could ride for the coast, take a ship for the old country.’
‘We are needed here.’
‘You’d best hope King Guy feels the same way. If you hang, I’ll see that you’re buried properly.’
John followed Raymond up the hill. A dozen of the king’s men, their surcoats emblazoned with the gold Jerusalem cross, guarded the entrance to the keep. Their captain spat at Raymond’s feet. ‘Your weapons, milords.’ He said the last word as if it tasted of shit.
