Holy War (30 page)

The young lord stood wide-eyed, staring at the blood on his blade. ‘I am a king’s man,’ he hissed. ‘You will pay for that with
your life.’

John’s only response was to raise his mace.

‘Stop! This is a house of God!’ someone called behind him. He turned to see a thin man in white priest’s robes. John saw a flash of gold as the priest swung the heavy cross that he had taken from the altar, and then pain exploded in his temple and the world went black.

‘Get up!’

John started awake as the toe of a boot dug into his side. A man in mail stood over him; he was holding a torch. John squeezed his eyes shut against the light. His head was pounding. He felt just above his ear, where the priest had struck him. His hair was sticky with blood.

‘Get up!’ the guard said again. ‘The King wants to see you.’

John pushed himself to his feet. He was in a windowless room with smooth stone walls and a thick, iron-banded door. The guard led him out into a dim hallway. They went up a flight of stairs and down another hallway, this one with windows looking out on the Thames. John could see London in the distance, a haze of wood smoke hovering above it. He followed the guard up more stairs. The halls here were covered in thick carpets that swallowed up the sound of their footsteps. The guard stopped at a door decorated with flowery steelwork. He knocked. A square-jawed man with curly auburn hair and hard grey eyes answered.

‘The prisoner, milord,’ the guard said.

The man nodded and opened the door. John stepped into a small room with a beamed ceiling and walls hung with tapestries that depicted hunting scenes in bright colours. The room was dominated by a large table, which left barely enough space for the crowd of courtiers. A young man with a sparse red beard lounged against the window embrasure to John’s left while a stooped old man with pale, sagging skin leaned on the side of the table. The rest stood. They were hard men in the prime of life. Two were dressed in bishop’s robes. The others were lords with arms embroidered on their doublets. Amongst these last, John noticed a man with the same arms as the young lord he had confronted in the church. His hair was more white than blond and his cheeks more hollowed, but he had the young man’s same angular face. John guessed that this was his father.

Behind the table sat a man so handsome that he might be called beautiful. He was clean-shaven and strong-jawed, and had reddish gold hair that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were the blue of Acre harbour on a sunny day. He wore a thin circle of gold on his head. This was King Richard.

The man who had let John in took his arm and pulled him forward to stand before the table. ‘The prisoner you wished to see, Your Grace. The one who tried to save the Jew.’

‘And killed one of my son Henry’s men,’ the hollow-cheeked man said.

‘Your son killed him,’ John replied.

‘Liar!’

‘Enough, Walchelin.’ Richard’s voice was a rich baritone, and he spoke in the curt tone of one accustomed to command. The king looked to John. ‘You heard Lord de Ferriers. He claims you killed one of his men and threatened to kill his son in order to protect a Jew. He has asked for your head.’

‘The Jew had taken shelter in a church, Your Grace.’

‘What does that matter? Young de Ferriers was doing my bidding, and God’s work. I need gold for my crusade. I’ve already sold every lordship and parcel of land that I can find buyers for. I’d sell London itself if I could, but no one wants this shit-hole. So I need the Jews’ coin. I have asked for twenty-five per cent of what they own. They came to me wheedling and pleading that they be allowed to give less. Such impertinence must be punished. You can be sure the Jews from the rest of my kingdom will pay readily enough now.’

‘Evil done in God’s name is still evil, Your Grace.’

Richard smiled at that, showing even white teeth. ‘You are either a bold man or a fool to speak thus to your king. How are you called?’

‘John of Tatewic.’

‘From near Yorkshire, Your Grace,’ said the wrinkled old man leaning on the table.

‘And what brings you to this stinking cesspool of a city, John of Tatewic?’

‘I wish to join your crusade.’

The young man by the window laughed, though his green eyes showed no sign of mirth. Richard smiled again. ‘A crusader who loves Jews and an old man at that. What use would I have with you?’

‘I have spent most of my life in the Holy Land, Your Grace. I fought in King Louis’ crusade. I was at Hattin and at Jerusalem when it fell. I served as Archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and as Abbot of Mount Sion. I lived among the Saracens. I know the enemy you will fight and the lands on which you will fight them.’

Richard’s blue eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps I shall have to spare you after all.’

‘He is no abbot,’ Walchelin put in. ‘And I doubt if he has ever sailed beyond our shores. He lies to save himself, Your Grace.’

‘We will know the truth of it soon enough.’ Richard nodded to the stern man who had opened the door. ‘De Chauvigny, bring Heraclius.’

While they waited, Richard poured himself some wine. He filled a huge goblet – gold and encrusted with jewels – that held half the pitcher. He had drained it and poured another by the time Heraclius entered.

The patriarch wore his ceremonial garb: gold-embroidered robes of white silk; a stole of shimmering golden silk around his shoulders; and atop his head a mitre encrusted with jewels that glittered in the candlelight. His eyes widened when he saw John.

‘Patriarch Heraclius,’ Richard addressed him. ‘Thank you for attending me. Do you recognize this man?’

Heraclius weighed his answer for a moment before he shook his head. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘You bastard!’ John growled. He lunged for the patriarch, but two men held him back. One of them twisted John’s arm painfully behind his back.

Heraclius’s full lips curled into a sneer. ‘Whoever he is, he seems quite the savage.’

Walchelin’s hand went to the dagger at his belt. ‘Let me kill him, Your Grace.’

‘Not yet.’ Richard studied John. Their eyes met. ‘Leave us, all of you.’

‘Your Grace!’ Walchelin protested.

‘Go! I wish to speak with him alone.’ When the courtiers had shuffled out, Richard rose and came around the table to stand before John. The king was a big man, half a hand taller than John and with broad shoulders and strong hands. ‘I know a liar when I see one,’ he said. ‘How long did you spend with the Saracens, John of Tatewic?’

‘Fifteen years, Your Grace.’

‘How did you come to be amongst them?’

‘I was captured at the siege of Damascus and sold as a slave. I served in the household of Najm ad-Din. I was the personal slave of his son, Saladin.’

‘The same Saladin who took Jerusalem? You know him well?’

John nodded. ‘I was the captain of his private guard. We were like brothers, once.’

‘God has sent you to me for a reason, John.’ Richard clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I have need of you. Heraclius is a prating fool. He has travelled across Europe begging men to take up the cross, but he cannot tell me one useful thing about the enemy we will face. One thing I learned from my father, may the devil piss on him, is to never move forward without knowing the lay of the land. With you at my side, I will not be marching blind.’

‘I will serve you as I am able, Your Grace.’

‘You will be my secretary. The march to Palestine will take months. I expect you at my side every day. By the time we arrive, I will know everything there is to know about our enemy.’

‘Your Grace, if I may?’ Richard nodded, and John continued. ‘You speak of marching to the Holy Land. I have trod that road in the army of King Louis. The emperor in Constantinople gave us little help, and in Anatolia the Turks harassed us day and night. We lost more than half our men before we reached Acre. You would be better served taking a ship.’

‘You prove your worth already, John.’ The king grabbed his goblet and took another drink. ‘But ships are damnably expensive. We’ll need to kill more Jews.’

C
hapter 16

April 1190: Acre

Yusuf sighed as he sank into the pool. When his feet touched the bottom, the steaming waters came up to his chin. A bath attendant poured a bucket of hot water over his head. Yusuf brushed the wet hair from his eyes and leaned back, resting the back of his head against the edge of the pool. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden roof. Where the rays passed through clouds of steam, they looked almost tangible, as if one could reach out and grasp them.

Ibn Jumay had prescribed frequent baths to help him recover from the illness that had laid him low last autumn. For weeks he had been confined to bed, racked by terrible pain that felt as if someone were twisting a dagger in his gut. His shit was red with blood. Ibn Jumay had prescribed him a diet of only water, boiled wheat and, once a week, a rich broth made of drippings from roasted meat. Slowly, he had recovered. By the time the winter rains ceased, he was able to resume his daily inspection of the lines. Still, he was weaker than he would have liked. The ride down the lines left his legs aching and his shoulders tight.

Yusuf closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily, like in one of the drills he had done as a child, back when he was struggling to overcome the suff ocating fits that had afflicted him. The tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed, and the sounds of the camp seemed to fade away. He could have been anywhere – in Damascus or even in his favourite palace, the one in Cairo, with the windows that looked out over the city to the Nile and the pyramids beyond. He could almost hear Shamsa’s voice calling to him from the next room.

‘Saladin! Malik!’

Yusuf’s eyes snapped open. Saqr stood at the edge of the pool. ‘Az-Zahir has seen something from the tower,’ the mamluk said.

‘More Franks?’

After the winter storms had passed and the seas had become navigable again, the Franks had begun arriving in the hundreds
– Danes, Frisians, Flemings, Frenchmen, Germans, Lombards and Hungarians. Two weeks ago, Conrad had returned from Tyre, where he had wintered, with yet more men and supplies to build siege engines. Yusuf had written to the caliph asking for men or money to fight the infidel. The response had come three days ago. The caliph sent two loads of naphtha, a few spear shafts, five experts in Greek fire and a letter of credit authorizing Yusuf to borrow twenty thousand dinars in his name. Such a paltry sum would pay his army’s expenses for no more than a week.

Saqr was shaking his head. ‘This is something different. The messenger Az-Zahir sent was most urgent.’

Yusuf climbed from the bath, and the flesh on his arms and legs prickled in the morning cool. He towelled off and dressed: leather breeches and boots; a padded vest; a mail hauberk that reached to his knees and wrists; over that his vest of golden jawshan; a coif to protect his neck; and lastly his gilt helmet, a golden eagle at its crest. He buckled his sword and dagger about his waist as he stepped outside.

Seagulls shrieked and wheeled overhead, riding the cool sea breeze. The camp was already full of life. A long line of men waited outside the bathhouses; another, longer line stretched away from the clay ovens where the army’s bread was baked.

Yusuf saw a mamluk step away from the ovens only for a gull to swoop down and carry off his piece of steaming flatbread. The man cursed at the bird.

Yusuf took a deep breath of the salty sea air and set out for the centre of the line. Past the baths, the ovens and the sprawling camp market, he entered amongst the tents of his men. These tents belonged to the Egyptian troops. They had arrived last November and replaced the men of Al-Jazirah, who had returned home for winter before heading north to defend the passes into Antioch from the German king. Selim had brought from Egypt a thousand mamluks and close to five thousand infantrymen. He had brought siege engines, too. A line of ten catapults stood just beyond the tents. Day and night, they hurled stones large and small into the Frankish camp. After any skirmish between the two sides, they would hurl the bodies of dead Franks. Next to them were four ziyars – huge crossbows that shot bolts four feet long. They were wicked instruments. Yusuf had seen a single bolt skewer four men, like pieces of meat on a spit. As he passed, one of the ziyars fired, sending a bolt arcing through the sky and into the Frankish camp.

The tower loomed at the end of the line of siege engines. It had been his son Az-Zahir’s idea, and Yusuf had rewarded him by giving him charge of the siege equipment. The tower was sixty feet tall, the base built of whole pine trunks taken from the hills north-east of Acre. The sides were covered with hides that the men kept wet to protect the tower from flaming arrows. From the top, lookouts could see down into the Frankish camp. Yusuf would not be surprised by his enemies again.

He climbed the twisting staircase to the top and found Az-Zahir looking out towards Acre. His son heard Yusuf’s footsteps and crossed the tower to greet him. The injury to his calf had healed, but Az-Zahir still limped slightly.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Father.’

‘What have you seen?’

‘Look for yourself.’

One side of the tower was open save for a wood railing to prevent falls. Standing at the rail, Yusuf could see dozens of Frankish ships riding at anchor on the glittering waters outside the harbour of Acre. Fifty Egyptian galleys had managed to force their way past the blockade to resupply the city, but that had been in late October, more than five months ago. Food had to be running short in the city. Qaraqush and his men would be suffering.