Kingdom (39 page)

‘When I swear an oath, I keep it. That is what it means to be a man of honour. Al-Salih is our lord, and it is our duty to defend him. It does not matter that Gumushtagin is regent in Aleppo. He is our lord’s servant and thus our ally. It does not matter that he may join others and march against us. Until that day, I will serve Al-Salih loyally. If you are truly men of honour, then you will do the same.’

Yusuf returned to the dais and sat.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally Al-Muqaddam spoke. ‘I spoke foolishly earlier. Forgive me, Malik.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. You voiced your thoughts, and now I have told you mine. We will not attack Aleppo. That is an end to the matter.’

Chapter 18

FEBRUARY 1175: KERAK

T
he mud sucked at John’s boots as he led his horse on to the narrow spur of land that sloped up to the citadel of Kerak. It was a miserable winter’s day, the low grey clouds spitting rain. John crossed the bridge over the gap in the spur and walked past a row of decapitated heads impaled on spears. The two guards at the gate were hunkered down under their cloaks. They hardly spared him a glance.

‘I am come to see Lord Reynald,’ John said.

‘In the keep.’

John left his horse with a stable boy in the lower court. He took the ramp to the upper court, where rain was pooling in broad puddles. There was no one about. Firelight glowed invitingly in the windows of the keep. John skirted the puddles and climbed the steps to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it, and a moment later it opened.

A heavy-set guard in mail stood in the doorway. ‘If you’ve come to beg, then you’d best leave before I run my sword up your backside.’

John held up his cross. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I have come on the King’s business. I must speak with your lord.’

The guard examined him for a moment before waving him inside into a draughty entrance hall. Another guard – an adolescent in loose, ill-fitting mail – stood beside the door.

‘I will inform Lord Reynald of your arrival,’ the heavy-set guard said. ‘You have a name, priest?’

‘John of Tatewic.’

The guard grunted. ‘An Englishman.’ He left, his footsteps echoing in the tall stone chamber.

John removed his dripping cloak. Beneath, he wore his chasuble and stole over a coat of mail. A mace was belted to his waist. He handed the cloak to the young guard. ‘Find a fireplace and hang this up to dry.’

The boy hesitated and then nodded and started to leave. He met the other guard in the doorway.

‘Where are you going?’ the heavy-set guard demanded.

‘H-he told me to hang his cloak.’

The guard cuffed the boy on the side of the head. He took the cloak and tossed it on the floor. ‘Get back to your post, porridge brains. Priest, you come with me. Leave your mace with the boy.’

John followed the guard up a stairwell and down a chilly hallway lined with loopholes. The guard stopped before a set of double doors. He knocked and pushed them open. John stepped into a thickly carpeted room, kept warm by a fire burning in the hearth beside the door. Reynald sat alone at table, bent over a roasted leg of lamb. He carved off a piece and speared it with his fork. Only then did he look up.

‘Saxon.’ He gestured to one of the seats at the table. ‘Sit.’

John did so. The guard stood uncomfortably close behind him.

‘What is your business, Saxon?’ Reynald demanded. ‘I presume you have not come for the pleasure of my company.’

‘Raymond sent me. You have been raiding the caravans that travel from Damascus to Cairo. It is a violation of our treaty with Egypt and Damascus.’

‘I couldn’t give a piss for your precious treaty.’

‘Raymond does not share your feelings. We are in no position to go to war with Egypt.’

‘Raymond is a coward.’

‘He has been elected regent. If you wish to keep your lands, you will do as he says.’

Reynald bristled. ‘I have these lands by the King! I earned them!’

‘By murdering the merchant Jalal?’

Reynald frowned and made a show of turning back to his lamb. ‘I know nothing of what you speak.’

‘I recognize your handiwork, Reynald; the heads on spears.’

‘So what if it was me? One less Mohammedan to worry about.’

‘Jalal was a Syrian Christian. And a dealer in poison. One of his poisons was used to kill King Amalric.’

Reynald’s eyes widened and he dropped his knife and fork. He seemed genuinely surprised.

‘You had cause to hate Amalric,’ John pointed out. ‘He failed to ransom you, and he gave your kingdom to Bohemond.’

‘What are you suggesting, Saxon?’

‘I think you poisoned Amalric. You learned I was investigating his death, and you killed Jalal to cover your tracks.’

Reynald burst out laughing. ‘That is ridiculous!’

‘Someone poisoned him, Reynald. If not you, then who?’

Reynald was suddenly angry. He grabbed his carving knife and pointed it at John. ‘I could have you killed for such an accusation. I am a man of honour! Amalric was my king.’

John met Reynald’s eyes without blinking. ‘And you killed the one man who knew who murdered him.’ Reynald was still holding the knife, but John decided to push him further. ‘In Baldwin’s eyes, that makes you look guilty,’ he lied. In truth, Baldwin knew nothing of John’s inquiry. ‘The King wants to see you beheaded.’

Reynald lowered the knife. ‘I knew nothing about any poison,’ he muttered. ‘I was only doing Heraclius a favour.’

‘Heraclius?’

‘He asked me to raid the caravan. Told me it was carrying
spice
from the East, that I could sell it for a fortune. He did not say anything about poison.’

John’s forehead creased. ‘But Heraclius does not have the authority to grant you Kerak. Who did?’

‘Baldwin.’

‘Why? The King has no love for you.’

Reynald shrugged. ‘Perhaps because I am a man of action, unlike Raymond.’

John’s mind was racing. Reynald had killed Jalal at Heraclius’s bidding. Baldwin had then made Reynald lord of Kerak and Oultrejourdain. Why? What was the link between Heraclius and Baldwin?

‘If you are finished, Saxon,’ Reynald said, ‘then you can go. Oudin, here, will show you out.’

John spent the night at an inn in the town of Kerak. He was surprised to find that the townspeople were pleased with their new lord. The town was thriving. Merchants bought the goods that Reynald stole in his raids on the caravans, and then sold them for a profit. The people felt more secure, too. Reynald meted out strict justice, hanging thieves and personally beheading any Saracens who came too close.

Early the next morning he left for Jerusalem. The rain had stopped, but the roads were still muddy. It would be slow going, so he decided to take the shorter route home; through Saracen lands along the eastern side of the Dead Sea. He doubted that he would run into any trouble. Few travelled in the winter rainy season; the roads were poor and the ravines subject to deadly floods. John saw no one as he rode north along the hilly shore of the sea.

He spent that first night beside a stream that fed into the Dead Sea. He made camp away from the road, well upstream in order to avoid being surprised by other travellers. The wood he found was wet, and he was unable to start a fire. He spent a restless night shivering as he huddled against the side of his
horse
. The next morning he awoke bleary-eyed and stiff. All his old injuries ached: his left shoulder, which had dislocated on the rack; his right shoulder, where he had taken an arrow; his side, where he still bore a long scar from a sword thrust that should have killed him. He managed to start a fire, but the rain returned and extinguished it. Cursing, he climbed into the saddle and continued north, huddled under his cloak.

The rain drowned out all sound and limited visibility, which was why John did not notice the men on horseback until they were almost upon him. There were three of them, dressed in the loose caftans of Saracens, their keffiyehs drawn down over their faces. When John first saw them, they were only one hundred yards behind him. He accelerated to a trot, but the men kept pace. John spurred his horse to a canter, but glancing over his shoulder he saw that the men were gaining ground. There could be no doubt. They were pursuing him.

John cursed his stupidity. He preferred to travel alone rather than with the Frankish sergeants with whom he had so little in common, but he could have used an escort now. ‘
Yalla
!’ he shouted and flicked the reins, urging his horse to a gallop. It kicked up mud as he turned into a ravine that twisted into the hills bordering the Dead Sea. The winding trail prevented him from seeing his pursuers, but he could hear their hoofbeats coming steadily closer.

The ravine turned sharply and widened into a shallow wash. In the centre was a stream bordered with tall brush. John slid from the saddle and guided his horse into the cold water. He walked north a dozen paces in order to hide his tracks and then left the steam and led his horse up a game trail that wound through thick brush. He tied his horse off amongst the bushes, out of sight.

John crept back to near the stream, which was now noticeably wider. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and as he peered through the leafy branches of a bush, he could just make out his pursuers. They had reined in beside the stream a dozen
yards
away and were searching for some sign of him. Finally they drew their swords, and one crossed to John’s side of the river and began to ride along the bank. The other two searched for tracks in the mud on the far side.

John stepped back into the brush as the rider on his side of the stream approached. The man passed by and then stopped. ‘
Here
!’ he called in French. ‘Tracks!’ These were no Saracens. John cursed silently as the man rode up the game trail that he had taken earlier. The other men crossed the stream and followed him. John waited a moment and then took his mace from his belt and headed up the trail after them.

The lead rider had stopped beside John’s horse. ‘Where did the Saxon bastard go?’ he growled.

John crept up behind the rearmost rider and grabbed him. The man shouted as he was dragged from his saddle. His scream was cut short when John smashed his face in with his mace. He transferred the mace to his left hand and took the dead man’s sword in his right.

The other riders had turned on hearing the cries of their fallen comrade. ‘Kill the bastard!’ the nearer man shouted.

John used the blade of his sword to slap the flank of the fallen rider’s horse. The beast reared up, blocking the two riders’ path, and John took the opportunity to run in the opposite direction. After ten feet he stopped in ankle-deep water. The stream was rising fast, flooding the wash. If John did not get to higher ground soon, he would drown. He stepped from the trail and waited, crouching behind a bush. The first man trotted past. As the second came by, John swung his sword, catching the man in the gut. The suit of mail that the man wore beneath his caftan stopped the blow, but it still knocked him from the saddle. The man scrambled to his feet, sword in hand.

John charged. The man held his ground and swung for John’s head. John parried, and brought his sword slicing down towards the man’s knees. The man managed to block the blow, but his sword was down, leaving him exposed. John swung for his face
with
his mace. The man lurched backwards, but John caught him in the throat, crushing his windpipe. He fell without a sound.

The hairs on the back of John’s neck rose, and he ducked instinctively, just before the third rider’s sword flashed over his head. John did not wait for the man to attack again. He sprinted for the brush located alongside the trail. Brambles and thorns tore at his clothes and scratched his face, but he pressed on. The brush was too thick for his foe to follow on horseback. Behind him, John could hear the man roaring with anger. ‘Damn you! Come back here and fight, Saxon!’

John stopped. Of course: they were Reynald’s men. The lord of Kerak must have decided that John knew too much. John could hear the sound of someone crashing through the brush behind him. He moved on until he came to a small clearing, half of which was already covered in ankle-deep water. John turned and waited. His pursuer stopped when he saw him. The man held a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.

‘You are Reynald’s man, aren’t you?’ John demanded.

In response the man reached up with his sword hand and unwrapped his keffiyeh. It was Oudin, the guard from Kerak. His lip curled back in a snarl and he charged, swinging backhanded for John’s head. John blocked with his sword and countered with his mace. Oudin took the blow on his shield and thrust for John’s gut. John managed to twist out of the way of the blade, but Oudin brought up his shield, smashing John in the face. John tasted blood from a split lip. He stumbled backwards and slipped, landing on his back in the mud. He saw a sword arcing towards his face and parried before kicking out, catching Oudin in the side of the knee. John felt his enemy’s leg give way. Oudin fell on his hands and knees.

John rolled towards him and swung his mace for the back of Oudin’s head. The Frank pushed himself up to his knees at the last moment, and the mace sank into the mud. Oudin chopped down on John’s arm. John felt a flash of blinding pain and
dropped
the mace. Oudin’s sword had cut through the mail over John’s forearm, leaving a deep gash.

Oudin raised his sword again, but John struck first, driving his blade into his enemy’s right shoulder. Oudin dropped his sword. With a roar, he swung his shield, hitting John in the side of the head. Everything went black for a moment. When John came to, he was lying on his back with Oudin kneeling on his chest. The water had risen so that it almost covered John’s face. Oudin had cast his shield aside and was groping in the rising water for his sword. John grabbed his enemy’s caftan. He pulled Oudin down and head-butted him, feeling a satisfying crunch as Oudin’s nose broke. He then brought his knee up into his enemy’s groin. Oudin grunted in pain, and John shoved him off his chest. He searched in the mud for his mace, but before he could find it Oudin slammed into him from the side. The two men grappled in the muddy water, each struggling to get a hold of the other. Oudin’s hands found John’s throat and began to squeeze. John choked, unable to breath. He managed to grab Oudin’s head with both hands and dug his thumbs into the man’s eyes. Still Oudin refused to let go of John’s throat. John shoved his thumbs deeper. He could feel hot blood running from Oudin’s eyes. The Frank pulled away, screaming.