Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  John’s grip on the staff tightened. ‘I have no quarrel with you, good sirs.’

  ‘Sirs? D’you hear that, Walter?’ The man in mail roared with laughter, but his eyes remained cold and hard. Walter chuckled along with him. The man’s laughter stopped suddenly and he spat. ‘We’re no lords. And might be we have a quarrel with you.’

  ‘I am a poor priest. I carry nothing of value.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, father.’

  A branch cracked behind him, and John whirled about. Just in time. A third outlaw lunged at him with a dagger. John sidestepped the blade and brought the butt of his staff up, cracking it against the side of the man’s skull. The outlaw fell, unmoving. John could hear the crunch of leaves and the jingle of mail as the other men rushed him. He turned to see the bearded man charging from his left with his sword held high. Walter rushed from the right. John stood his ground until the last moment and then stepped towards the man in mail and jabbed with the tip of his staff, catching him in the face. Walter was almost on John, and he spun away from the huge man’s clumsy blow and brought the staff around to catch him in the back of the knees. Walter fell face first, stabbing himself in the shoulder with his dagger. He rolled on to his back and lay screaming.

  The man in mail was backing away. Blood ran from his nose to stain his beard crimson. ‘What sort of priest are you?’

  John leaned casually on his staff. ‘The kind who baptizes with blood – yours.’

  The man turned and ran. The outlaw who had attacked John from behind was still unconscious, an ugly bruise already forming at his temple. John recognized him as the cloaked man from the tavern. He took his dagger and tossed it into the woods and then turned to Walter. The huge man’s eyes were wide. ‘Please! Please!’ he begged. ‘Don’t kill me.’

  ‘Hold still.’ John knelt and wrenched the dagger from his shoulder. Walter squealed in pain. John made the sign of the cross over him. ‘May God save you from your evil ways.’ He tucked the dagger into his belt and strode away.

  John left the woods behind and came upon a meadow where there grazed a single cow, its udder bulging with milk. Beyond the meadow lay Tatewic – two dozen wooden longhouses huddled around a well. The rain had started again by the time he reached the edge of the village where an imposing stone residence with glass windows stood. It had not been there when John was a boy. It had to be the grange.

  Men and women came to their doors and stared at John as he made his way down the village’s only street. They were farmers mostly, kept inside by the rain, but one was a miller in an apron dusted with flour. Men and women alike had broad faces with red cheeks and eyes narrowed in suspicion. John did not recognize any of them, no more than they did him.

  He reached the well and turned right between two houses. Tatewic hall lay straight ahead. It was a rectangular, two-storey building with narrow windows and walls of thick stone. It was separated from the village by a moat, but the drawbridge was down. As he crossed, John saw fat carp swimming in the water below. He reached the door and pounded on it with his fist. There was no answer. He pounded again, and a man in mail answered.

  ‘If you’ve come to beg,’ the guard growled, ‘you’d best be off.’ He had a grey beard that covered sagging jowls. His eyes were the bright green of spring leaves. John recognized those eyes.

  ‘Edwyn? I have come to see your lord.’

  The guard blinked. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘His brother.’

  ‘I have half a mind to have you whipped,’ Caelin said. John’s brother had not risen from the table where he had sat when John entered the great hall. Indeed, Caelin had not even looked up from his leg of lamb. When John had left, his younger brother had been a boy of thirteen. Now he was a man, thick of chest, with a fleshy face and full sandy-brown beard. He took a sip of wine and looked over the rim of the cup towards John. ‘My brother Iain died more than forty years ago.’

  Iain. No one had called him that in many years. ‘I am called John, now. And I did not die. I took the cross and went to the Holy Land. See for yourself.’ John held out the scroll the Bishop of Bayeux had given him. His brother unrolled it and then set it aside.

  ‘I do not read.’

  ‘It says that I was archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and abbot of Mount Sion. I ceded the posts to the Bishop of Bayeux.’

  Caelin picked up the paper. ‘Turstan!’ he called to the guard. ‘Have Father Hugh examine this. I wish to know what it says.’ Caelin sat back and turned his pale-blue eyes on John. ‘And why have you returned after so many years?’

  ‘Jerusalem fell. Only Tyre, Antioch and Tripoli remain in Christian hands. Surely you must have heard?’

  ‘We hear much and more from overseas, most of it lies.’ Caelin took another drink and his eyes narrowed as he examined John more closely. ‘You have Iain’s eyes and jaw. You could almost be him.’

  ‘I am him, Caelin. I was there when you dropped Father’s favourite carving knife down the well, when you kissed Fat Sally down by the smithy. I played at knights with you in this very hall.’

  Caelin set his cup aside. He pushed back his chair and rose to stand before John. He gripped his shoulders with strong hands and stared into John’s eyes. Then he embraced him. ‘By God! It is you!’ Caelin stepped back, and when he spoke again, his voice had an edge. ‘Why are you here, Iain?’

  ‘Do not fear, Brother. I have not come to dispute your claim to Tatewic. I am a priest now.’

  ‘As Father wished.’ Caelin smiled and embraced him again. ‘Welcome home, Brother. Sit. Steward, wine!’ A thin young man brought another bottle and a cup. Caelin poured for John. ‘We thought you dead, Iain. You left without a word.’

  ‘I had good reason. Our brother, Ranulf—’

  ‘Was a piece of shit. No one here has forgotten what he did, the rebellion he invented to win the Earl of York’s favour. He cost a dozen families their land. Father was hanged because of his lies. No one blamed you for what you did, Iain. I would have killed Ranulf myself, had I been older.’

  ‘Earl William would not have been so understanding.’

  ‘William is dead and gone, and we have a new king. I have fought beside him. Henry is a good man.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ John took a sip of wine. It tasted of burnt wood and mushrooms, but he swallowed nonetheless. ‘It is good to see you, Brother. When I left, you were only a boy.’

  ‘And you a beardless youth.’ Caelin sighed as he twisted in his chair to stretch his back, which produced a loud crack. ‘We have grown old, Brother.’

  ‘How is Mother?’

  ‘Gone these five years.’

  John frowned. ‘And Aedwyn?’

  ‘Our sister is married and a mother of six.’ Caelin slapped the table. ‘By the devil! I can scarcely believe you are here. I could hardly be more surprised if Christ himself visited my table. What are your plans, Brother? The King is gathering his lords in France. Will you come to war with me?’

  ‘I have had enough of blood and death. I wish only for a place to live out my days as a simple priest.’

  ‘That you shall have. The brothers at Roche Abbey have a grange in Tatewic with a well-appointed house for the overseer of their lands. He died some weeks ago and has yet to be replaced. The abbot owes me a favour. I shall speak with him on your behalf.’

  ‘You have my thanks.’

  Caelin grinned and slapped John on the shoulder. ‘By God, it is good to have you back.’

  ‘It is good to be home, Brother.’

  Chapter 14

  August 1189: Beaufort

  The day will soon come when I hold you in my arms once more, Shamsa. My conquest is almost complete. My men have swept through Antioch, taking Al-Arqah, Jabala, Latakia, Sayhyun, Burzey, Saminiqa, Bakas Shoqr, Darbsaq and Baghras. In the south, the great fortress of Kerak has finally fallen.

  Yusuf’s quill paused over the sheet of parchment. Near the end, the defenders of Kerak had been so desperate that th
ey had sold their women and children to the besiegers in return for food. Not even that measure had saved them. They had been slaughtered to a man when the fortress fell, but Shamsa did not need to know the grisly details. Yusuf dipped his quill in the inkpot and continued.

  Now all that remains to our enemies are the cities of Tyre, Antioch and Tripoli and a few scattered fortresses. My army is at the castle the Franks call Beaufort, what we know as Qala’at al-Shaqif.

  ‘The castle high on the rock.’ It was a fitting name. Yusuf’s tent sat in the shade of Beaufort, which sat at the edge of a cliff that rose over a thousand feet above the plain below. It was a mighty citadel, but its imposing limestone walls could not protect its defenders from starvation.

  Once Beaufort falls, Tripoli will be next, then Tyre and Antioch. And then I will come home. And once he did, there would be no more war. Yusuf would build, not destroy. He would construct mosques and places of learning. He would secure the caravan routes to encourage trade. He would rebuild Jerusalem into a thriving city. Yusuf dipped the quill a final time. And once I return, nothing will drag me from your side. You have my word, habibi.

  Yusuf was rereading the letter when the tent flap opened and Az-Zahir stepped inside. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror that reflected a younger version of himself. Yusuf’s third son had a dark adolescent beard, a thin face and narrow shoulders. His armour was covered in dust. Az-Zahir looked to have just returned from Tyre, where Yusuf had sent him to keep an eye on the Christians. Conrad of Montferrat had refused Guy entrance to Tyre, and in response the King of Jerusalem had brought his knights and laid siege. Yusuf had stayed clear, happy to let his enemies tear one another apart.

  Yusuf rose and kissed his son on the cheeks. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Az-Zahir.’

  ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Father. I bring dark news from Tyre. Christian warriors from overseas have arrived outside the city. King Guy has taken command of them. He has left the city and is marching on Acre with an army of three thousand men.’

  Yusuf frowned. Three thousand men were not enough to take Acre, which was garrisoned by over four thousand mamluks under Qaraqush. Still, he had hoped that after Hattin, he was done with Guy. ‘When I freed him, the King swore he would never again take up arms against Islam.’

  ‘I spoke with some merchants who had visited Guy’s camp. They say King Guy wished to sail for France, but his wife Sibylla refused. It is she who urges him on.’

  ‘Sibylla swore no oath to me. Guy did. The man is an oath breaker, and he shall be punished accordingly. We will march for Acre. Have my emirs meet me here.’

  Az-Zahir did not move. ‘There is more, Father. The merchants also spoke of a new crusade.’

  Crusade. The word struck Yusuf like a punch to the gut. For the first time in months, his stomach began to burn.

  ‘The French and English kings are gathering troops,’ Az-Zahir continued. ‘And the German emperor Barbarossa is said to already be on the march. One of the merchants saw his army cross the Danube. He said he had never seen so many men. He said the army is without number, like the stars in the sky.’

  Yusuf forced himself to remain impassive. ‘Go. Bring my emirs,’ he said curtly. But when Az-Zahir had left, he slumped against the tent pole. He was tired of war, so very tired. Now it was coming again. A host without number. And that was just one of three armies. How could he defeat so many? Even if he gathered every mamluk, Bedouin and Turcoman in all his kingdoms and emptied the treasuries to purchase mercenaries, he could not field an army larger than thirty thousand men. Yusuf took a deep breath and stood straight. He had to be strong for his men. He poured himself a cup of water to quench the fire in his gut. He was drinking when Gökböri entered, followed shortly by Al-Mashtub, Nu’man and Imad ad-Din. Yusuf’s sons Al-Afdal, Al-Aziz and Az-Zahir entered together. Ubadah did not come.

  ‘King Guy is marching on Acre,’ Yusuf told his emirs. ‘It is the key to Palestine. It must remain in our hands. Imad ad-Din, you will send word to Saif ad-Din to bring the army of Egypt north. When our forces are combined, we will grind the Franks to dust against the walls of Acre. I mean to have Guy’s head on a pike.’

  ‘Guy’s men are no threat to Acre,’ Nu’man pointed out. ‘Why not wait to march until after we have taken Beaufort?’

  ‘Because Guy must be defeated quickly. The Christians’ Pope has called a new crusade, larger than any before it. The Franks are coming in the thousands.’

  His words were met with silence. Imad ad-Din looked as if he might be sick. Al-Mashtub and Gökböri were scowling. They were old warriors who had seen the second crusade and knew what Yusuf’s words meant. Nu’man’s face was impassive. Al-Afdal and Al-Aziz both grinned. They were too young to know better.

  ‘Let the Christians come!’ Al-Afdal exclaimed. ‘More fuel for the fires of hell.’ The older warriors glared at him, and his smile faded.

  ‘The Franks will outnumber us by many thousands,’ Yusuf continued. ‘We have fought these many years to drive them from our lands. Now, we fight for our very survival. Al-Aziz, you will go north and secure the passes that lead to Antioch. You will halt the Germans before they reach our lands.’ Yusuf spoke firmly, disguising his own doubts. In truth, Al-Aziz had as much chance of stopping the emperor’s vast army as a fly had of halting a rolling boulder. ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ the emirs murmured.

  ‘The rest of you go and prepare your men to march. We leave tomorrow for Acre.’

  Yusuf followed his emirs out. The sun had set and the light was fading fast, draining the world of its colours. He strode across the camp to Ubadah’s tent. He waved the guards aside and entered to find his nephew flat on his back with a woman riding him. Yusuf recognized her as a Frankish slave that Ubadah had taken at Hattin. She was plump and pale, with hair as red as flame and large breasts that bounced with each thrust of Ubadah’s hips.

  ‘Nephew!’ Yusuf snapped.

  Ubadah’s eyes widened. He pushed the girl off and pulled a robe about himself as he rose. ‘Leave us, Elena!’ he shouted. His voice was slurred with drink.

  Yusuf watched the girl go. He turned to his nephew. ‘I have been patient with you, Ubadah, but my patience is at an end.’

  Ubadah stared at the carpeted floor of his tent, refusing to meet Yusuf’s eye. He swayed and grabbed the tent pole to keep from falling.

  ‘Look at you! You can barely stand. I expect more from you. You are one of my most important commanders. You are my nephew.’

  ‘And the son of a Frank.’ Ubadah looked up, and Yusuf could see hurt in his eyes. ‘Is it any wonder I drink like an infidel?’ He pushed past Yusuf and left the tent.

  Yusuf followed and grabbed his nephew’s arm. ‘It is your actions that matter, Ubadah, not your parentage.’

  ‘Is that why you lied to me?’ Ubadah snarled and shrugged off Yusuf’s hand. ‘You were ashamed of the truth. Ashamed of me!’ He was shouting now. ‘I am nothing, Uncle! I am the son of a dog!’

  ‘You are wrong,’ Yusuf replied evenly. ‘John is honest, and he is the bravest man I have ever known. A better man than Khaldun was.’

  His nephew struck him, a backhanded blow that snapped Yusuf’s head to the side. Behind him, Yusuf could hear the whisper of steel leaving the scabbard as Saqr drew his blade.

  The blood had drained from Ubadah’s face, but he did not flinch when Yusuf met his eyes. ‘You knew!’ Ubadah hissed. ‘You should have killed him, and instead you did nothing!’

  ‘I love you, Nephew, else I would have your hand for striking me. Hate me if you will, but do your duty. That is all I ask.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’ Ubadah’s voice was stony. He strode away, and Yusuf watched him disappear into the darkness before heading for his tent. He sat heavily on his camp-stool and leaned forward, his head in his hands. His gaze fell on the letter to Shamsa. Yusuf picked it up and held it to a lamp until it caught fire. He dropped the still burning scrap in his brass chamber pot and went to his portable desk
to start a new letter.

  October 1189: Acre

  Yusuf stood before his tent at the edge of a low, flat-topped hill. The day had dawned clear, and he could see the mighty walls of Acre one mile distant. Beyond those walls, the city sat on a promontory that curved out into the waters of the Mediterranean. The sea was indigo now, but when the sun rose higher, it would transform into a brilliant turquoise. A gust of chill wind blew off the water, bringing with it the tangy smell of the ocean.

  Yusuf’s gaze shifted from the sea to the enemy. The Frankish besiegers were concentrated south of the city, along the banks of the Belus River where it entered the sea. To protect themselves from Yusuf’s army, they had built a line of earthen bulwarks topped with spears and fronted with ditches. The Frankish ramparts ran from their camp near the river to the coast north of the city, cutting Acre off from the mainland. Another set of ramparts facing the city protected the camp from sorties by the Muslim garrison. Dozens of different flags flew in the space between the ramparts. In the month since Yusuf arrived at Acre, two thousand Franks from overseas had joined Guy. There were Danes and Frisians, Frenchmen and Germans, and two cohorts of Italians, all eager to avenge the fall of Jerusalem. And as of last night, another new flag flew above the camp. It was silver and crowned with a band of scarlet – the arms of Conrad of Montferrat. The marquis had set aside his differences with Guy and come from Tyre with nearly two thousand men, a hundred of them knights. Although Yusuf still had more men when his forces were combined with those in the garrison, the Christians now outnumbered his army in the field. Selim could not arrive from Egypt soon enough.

  ‘Malik,’ Saqr said as he appeared at Yusuf’s side. ‘Your horse is ready.’

  ‘Good. Ride with me.’

  Yusuf climbed into the saddle and started down the hillside. He made a tour of the lines each morning and evening. His uncle had taught him that. ‘You must be one of the men before you can lead them,’ Shirkuh had said before giving Yusuf his first command. Yusuf had never forgotten those words. Even now, when he was king of Egypt and Syria, and the conqueror of Jerusalem, he knew that he was only as strong as the men who fought for him. And those men would fight harder for a leader they could see and hear than for one who remained aloof in his tent.