Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  ‘And let the Franks fortify their position even more?’

  ‘It is not the Franks you should fear, Malik. Sickness in the enemy camp is spreading. You must pull your men back or risk infection. Disease will kill more surely than the Franks, and you cannot fight it.’

  ‘I will think on what you have said.’

  Ibn Jumay bowed and departed. Yusuf rose and the world spun for a moment, then steadied. The air is too close in my tent. He pulled on his cloak and stepped outside. After a few deep breaths, his head cleared. He could just make out the Frankish camp through the rain. Since the battle, they had spent their days digging a deeper trench before their bulwarks. They had also built a wooden wall around their camp. They had begun to extend it along their lines, starting at the river and moving north. Men were at work on it even now, despite the rain. Beyond them, Yusuf could see pyres burning in the empty piece of ground between the Franks’ two ramparts. The Christians were burning their dead.

  Every day saw more bodies on those pyres. The Franks had pulled the bodies of their dead from the river, but too late. The flux was loose in their camp, and hundreds had died already. If the disease spread to Yusuf’s men, hundreds more would join them. Ibn Jumay was right to be afraid. Yet Yusuf could not retreat. Not now. If the Franks finished that wall, their siege would be that much harder to break. And their numbers were growing. For every one that burned on the pyre, three arrived from overseas. The spring would bring even more of them. And meanwhile, the German emperor Barbarossa had reached Constantinople. Yusuf had to strike now.

  ‘Saqr!’ he called. ‘My horse!’

  Another wave of dizziness swept over him as Yusuf climbed into the saddle. He swayed but managed to straighten.

  ‘Perhaps you should rest, Malik,’ Saqr suggested. ‘One of your sons can inspect the lines.’

  ‘I am well enough,’ Yusuf grumbled and set off into camp. At the barricade, the men had erected canvas shelters and were huddled beneath them to keep out of the rain. Yusuf noticed that some were pale, with tight skin and dark circles under their eyes. He kept his distance. Had sickness already come to his camp? How?

  ‘Malik.’ Husam stepped out from beneath one of the shelters. He coughed – a deep, chest-rattling cough – and spat. ‘Three more men caught visiting the red tents last night.’

  The red tents. That was it. ‘Show them to me.’

  Husam barked an order and two of his men jogged off. They returned a moment later marching two men in tunics before them. The men were shivering in the cold. Their faces were drawn and their eyes red. ‘Where is the third man?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘Too sick to walk, Malik,’ came the reply from one of the mamluks. ‘He collapsed in the mud, just outside the prison tent. I thought it best not to drag him here.’

  ‘You did well.’ Yusuf turned to Husam. ‘These men are to be placed in a tent on the edge of camp. Give them a guard and their own cook. No one else is to have contact with them. And the next man to be caught visiting the red tents will be beheaded. Let it be known.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  Yusuf continued down the line. He rode in silence, nodding at the men as he passed. His teeth were soon chattering. He drew his cloak more tightly about him. He was always cold of late. Near the middle of the line, he rode up the rampart to look at the enemy lines. The wall the Franks were building now extended along a quarter of their line. In a week, maybe less, it would be complete.

  ‘Saqr,’ he called. ‘Have the emirs gather in my tent. I will want to speak to them when I return.’

  Yusuf rode back down from the barricade. His mind was busy planning as he continued up the line. He would strike tomorrow. Tonight, he would need to send a message to Qaraqush in Acre to coordinate the attack. One of Yusuf’s mamluks – a man named Isa – had already delivered several messages. Isa was a great swimmer. He would enter the sea to the south of the Frankish camp and swim under their ships and into the harbour of Acre.

  Yusuf returned to his tent and dismounted. He had to lean on his horse for a moment to steady himself. Ibn Jumay’s medicine was wearing off. The pain in his gut had returned. He entered his tent to find his emirs waiting. He strode past them and sat heavily on the camp-stool.

  ‘We have waited long enough,’ he began. ‘Tomorrow, we will strike. We—’ He paused and his hand went to his head. The faces of the men before him blurred. He blinked, but they refused to come into focus.

  ‘Father!’ he heard Az-Zahir say, but his son’s voice seemed far away. The world was spinning again. He felt himself falling. Then everything went black . . .

  Chapter 15

  December 1189: Tatewic

  John sat at a simple oak desk, the accounts for the grange open before him. The previous overseer – a layman hired by the abbey – had kept poor records. John suspected the man had been stealing. If so, that was only one of the sins for which he was, no doubt, suffering in hell. John had learned from the miller – a talkative man who was happy to gossip so long as John bought his ale – that the previous overseer had died of an attack of apoplexy while fucking the blacksmith’s wife. Her screaming had drawn half the village, including her husband, who the miller assured John had been busy buggering one of the acolytes from the abbey.

  John squinted at the rows of numbers and made a notation. He set the quill aside and rubbed his hands, trying to bring warmth back to his aching knuckles. It was no use. He rose and added another log to the fire. He poked at the blaze until it was roaring merrily, but still the chill in the room remained. The grange was a fine home with a study, a well-appointed bedroom, a great hall and a separate kitchen, but the thick stone walls made it as cold as a tomb.

  Something howled outside. It sounded like a baby crying. John went to the window and pushed open the shutters. Snow was falling, and the square below was blanketed in white. On the far side was a pack of boys, some not yet old enough to help in the fields, others with downy cheeks. They stood in a semicircle before the wall of the miller’s house, where they had nailed up a cat by its tail. The poor animal was hissing and thrashing, its claws scrabbling against the wall as it sought to free itself. One of the boys stepped forward and head-butted it. He came away with a bloody gash on his cheek. The other boys cheered. The cat howled.

  John closed the shutters. He did not need to see more to know how the boys’ sport would end. They would butt the cat until it died, and whoever killed it would be declared the victor. It was a savage game. John had played it himself when he was a child. He had been a savage, too. He grimaced. Since returning to England, he sometimes felt like a man living amongst beasts. A very, very cold man. He returned to the fire and his hands began to tingle as they slowly thawed. He had cursed the heat of the Holy Land more times than he cared to remember, but the cold was much worse. He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing on the sandy shore south of Acre and looking out over the clear turquoise waters of the harbour. He could almost feel the hot sun beating down, its warmth balanced by the cool sea breeze.

  There was a tentative knock on the door. ‘Enter!’ John called.

  It was his servant, Caesarius. The boy was a novice from the abbey, and he could hardly have had a more ill-fitting name. Caesarius was a gangly lad, forever tripping over his own feet, and he was so shy that he could hardly string together more than three words when in John’s presence. He set a bowl of stew down on the table and hurried from the room without a word.

  John sat and poked at the stew with his spoon. Turnips, carrots and some sort of boiled meat were floating beneath a thick film of grease. He knew it was better than most of the villagers ate, but just looking at it made his stomach turn. He sometimes found himself dreaming of fresh mangoes and oranges, of spiced lamb and thin, crisp bread. If he had the coin to take ship, he would have returned to the East months ago, but he was not about to trek across Europe, not again. His trip north had nearly killed him.

  This stew looked likely to finish the job. John pushed the bowl away and don
ned his heavy cloak. Outside, the air was so cold it burned his lungs. His boots crunched in the snow, and he left fresh tracks behind him as he crossed the square. The boys had finished their sport. Only one remained. He was furtively carrying the dead cat away.

  ‘You there! What are you doing?’

  The boy froze. He looked to be no older than ten, with saucer-like eyes and smooth cheeks marked by the cat’s claws. ‘I – I was going to bury it,’ he murmured.

  ‘Bless you, son.’ John made the sign of the cross and continued to the door of the miller’s house. He knocked.

  The fat-cheeked miller Edgar greeted him with a smile. ‘John! Come in, come in.’

  John hung his cloak by the door and sat before the fire crackling in the hearth. The miller’s food was no better than John’s, but at least it was warm here. And Edgar’s wife brewed a fine ale.

  ‘Let me get you something to drink,’ the miller said.

  ‘That would be kind of you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Edgar stepped into the next room but continued talking. ‘I’m glad you came, John. My wife is visiting her sister up in Thurcroft. Mabil is pregnant.’ Edgar crossed himself as he returned with a tankard in hand. ‘A winter babe. God help it.’ He took a hot poker from the fire and dipped it in the ale, which foamed over the sides. He handed the tankard to John and sank into the chair beside him.

  John sipped at the warm brew. It was rich and sweet, with a bitter aftertaste and a hint of spice. John raised his eyebrows. ‘Cinnamon?’

  Edgar grinned. ‘And a touch of honey and ground ivy.’

  ‘Where on earth did you find cinnamon?’

  ‘I have my ways.’ Edgar’s smile faded. He took a sip from his own tankard. ‘Mabil’s child . . . if it dies early, will you baptize it, John?’

  John nodded. Baptizing the dead was a common enough practice. No mother wanted her child to go to hell, so the babes were brought to priests who waited for a sign of life – sweating or movement – and then quickly baptized the child. The parents could then bury it with a clear conscience. John had seen enough dead men to know that the signs of life were nothing of the sort, but he was happy to provide what comfort he could.

  ‘Good, good. That will put my wife’s mind at ease.’ Edgar took another drink. ‘How is the grange, Father?’

  ‘Cold.’

  ‘Hah! That it is. The man who built it was a fool. I told him those glass windows were good for nothing.’ Edgar took up a poker and stirred the fire, sending sparks racing up the chimney. ‘Ah well, nothing a fire and warm ale can’t fix, eh?’

  ‘Amen.’ John took a long drink.

  There was a knock on the door, and it swung open, bringing with it a swirl of snowflakes. Caesarius stood uncertainly in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, boy!’ Edgar cried. ‘Get inside.’

  ‘What is it, Caesarius?’ John asked as the boy closed the door.

  ‘Your – your—’ Caesarius’s gaze fell to the floor. He licked his lips and started again. ‘Your brother has returned, father.’

  ‘He is in the castle?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘My thanks for the ale, Edgar.’ John retrieved his heavy cloak from beside the door. ‘Caesarius, see that the fire in my room stays lit. I want it roaring when I return.’

  Outside, the snow was falling so heavily that it had already filled Caesarius’s footsteps. John trudged through the storm to the manor. The guard at the gate nodded to him. ‘He’s in the hall, father.’

  John found Caelin slouched in his seat at the end of the table. A bowl of stew sat untouched before him. He had a mug of ale in hand, and he took a long drink as John entered the hall. Last spring Caelin had left for France to join King Henry in battle against his son, Richard. He had left on a sunny spring day and had been in high spirits. He had ridden a magnificent chestnut destrier, and his mail had been scoured so that it gleamed to match his bright smile. Now his armour was rusted and rent at the shoulder. An angry scar ran down his right cheek.

  ‘Brother!’ Caelin called. He was missing his two top front teeth. He took another swig from his mug. ‘Sit. Eat. I have no stomach for food.’

  John sat beside him and glanced at the stew. ‘I am not hungry.’

  ‘Ale for my brother!’ Caelin ordered.

  A young boy came forward with a mug. John accepted the warm ale gratefully and took a long drink. ‘What has happened to you, Brother?’

  ‘Have you not heard? The King is dead.’

  ‘News travels slowly. We heard rumours.’

  ‘It is more than rumours. In June, we met to parlay with Richard and King Philip of France. They offered outrageous terms, which Henry refused. We returned to Le Mans.’ Caelin shook his head and took another drink. ‘A truce had been called for the parlay. Richard attacked before it ended. We were caught unprepared. Richard broke into Le Mans and set it afire. We fled, but Richard and Philip caught up to us at Ballans. They crushed us. Afterwards, Richard forced Henry to recognize him as his heir instead of John. Two days later, Henry was dead.’

  ‘At Richard’s hand?’

  ‘Henry was old, but he was not dying, not until Richard drove him from Le Mans in the midst of a raging storm. Henry took ill, and he never recovered. Richard may not have struck him down, but make no mistake, he killed his father.’ Caelin drained the mug and slammed it down on the table. ‘More ale!’ The servant boy hurried forward with a mug, sloshing ale as he set it on the table.

  ‘So Richard is king?’

  Caelin nodded. ‘And a right bastard he is, too. His men call him Cœur-de-lion, Lionheart.’ Caelin snorted. ‘But the man has no heart.’

  ‘The brothers at Roche Abbey say he is a religious man.’

  ‘His only religion is blood and steel. Richard has taken the cross, but do not think it is for God. He is using his crusade as an excuse to squeeze his father’s allies dry. He would not let me leave court until I paid him a hundred pounds.’

  ‘But he will march for Jerusalem?’

  ‘Aye. He is in London now, collecting coin and men. An army of cut-throats and murderers, if you ask me. He’s promised a full pardon to any who take the cross. The gaols of Wales and England have emptied.’ Caelin shrugged and took a long drink from the fresh mug of ale. ‘I suppose a few more thieves hardly matter; most of his knights are brigands.’

  A crusade. This was John’s chance to return to the Holy Land. ‘Do you suppose Richard would take a priest?’

  Caelin set his mug down and gripped John’s arm with surprising urgency. ‘Do not think of taking the cross, John. You do not want to serve under Richard. He is a man without honour.’

  John thought of Reynald and Guy. ‘I have fought for men without honour before. God can use even the basest of tools to achieve his purposes.’

  Caelin released John. ‘If the grange does not please you, Brother, then I will find you another residence. You are always welcome in my hall.’

  ‘It is not the grange, Caelin; it is England. I am a stranger here. My place is in the East. Richard is going there, and I mean to join him.’

  Caelin gave his brother a long look. He nodded. ‘Very well. I will see that you are fitted out with armour, weapons and enough coin to see you to London.’ He shook his head again. ‘God save you, Brother.’

  January 1190: London

  John smelt London long before he saw it. The damp air over the Thames was heavy with the reek of decaying waste, rotting meat, offal and shit, all overlaid with the sharp scent of wood smoke. He wrinkled his nose. The captain of the small merchant ship noticed and laughed. He was a red-cheeked man with thin arms and an enormous belly. ‘You should smell her in the summer, priest. Today she’s sweet as a rose by comparison.’

  John had ridden the short distance to Hull, from where he had taken a ship, preferring to chance the winter seas rather than the muddy roads leading to London. The captain had hugged the coast, and the voyage had passed uneventfully.
John spent most of it below decks retching. Better this, he had told himself, than weeks spent riding south through the bitter cold. After they entered the mouth of the Thames, his seasickness had abated and he had come on deck. He could see the Tower of London now, a massive keep looming above grey walls on the north bank of the river. A ray of sunshine escaped the clouds and illuminated the keep, causing it to shine like fresh snow.

  ‘The White Tower,’ the captain said. ‘Newly built of limestone. A pretty site, but I wouldn’t want to go there. Richard uses it as a prison for those who displease him.’

  Beyond the Tower, the city of London squatted behind its walls. It was a jumble of wood and stone houses and taller church towers, all pressed up against one another. A bridge spanned the river, connecting London to Southwark across the Thames. The bridge was under construction. The section nearest the walls was built of stone and the rest of wood.

  ‘What are you doing?’ John asked the captain. The boat was angling away from the city and towards the south bank. ‘You promised to take me to London.’

  ‘And so I have. It’s cheaper to dock at Southwark, father. It’s only a short walk to the city.’

  Men busied themselves about the deck, and the sails came down as the boat glided towards a pier. Sailors jumped ashore to tie the ship off. John waited until they had lowered the gangway. He crossed himself as he stepped on to the pier. The waterfront was crowded with sailors, merchants and whores. He shouldered his way into the crowd. Beneath his fur-lined cloak, he wore a coat of mail that his brother had given him, and most of the men and women in the crowd stepped quickly aside when they felt it. But one young whore, hardly more than a child, clung to his arm. She leered at John. ‘Fancy a fuck, good sir? I’m newly arrived from the country, fresh as new linen.’

  John pulled away and pushed on. The crowd thinned as he left the waterfront behind. The streets of Southwark were paved, but the stones were slick with snow and filth. John stepped carefully as he made his way to the bridge. A stone gatehouse stood at its head. He joined the line of people tromping across the drawbridge that separated it from the town. When he reached the gate itself, a soldier in mail stopped him. ‘Two pence to cross on foot.’