Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

“I will oversee your sword drill,” said Hugh, “while you go about your dangerous business.”

“Oversee mine too,” said Roger. “A few hours among the hovels does have a certain appeal after watching my inept crew savaging the art of swordplay.” He rubbed his hands together and gave Hugh a leering grin.

Hugh shook his head, laughing, and went to collect his armour. Geoffrey, reluctantly in view of the heat, donned his chain-mail shirt and hauled his surcoat over the top of it. He strapped his sword to his waist and put his dagger in its sheath, calling for Sergeant Helbye and Ned Fletcher to ready themselves. Hugh was right to be cautious, and after the incident of the night before, Geoffrey had no intention of beginning his investigation without armed guards.

He clattered down the stairs, the scabbard of his sword ringing as it struck the walls. Although Norman knights usually rode, Geoffrey preferred to walk within the city. Many of the streets were too narrow for horsemen, and he disliked being forced to ride in single file, feeling it made him vulnerable to attack. Unlike most Normans, Geoffrey was as good a fighter on foot as he was in the saddle, and so the notion of walking did not fill him with the same horror as it did many of his colleagues.

Roger met him in the bailey, similarly clad in chain-mail shirt, surcoat, and leather helmet. Geoffrey’s surcoat had seen better days, but it was spotless compared to Roger’s, which was so stiff with dirt and grease that Geoffrey wondered if it could walk by itself. They watched their soldiers thrusting and parrying for a few moments, booted feet kicking up clouds of the yellow-white dust that seemed to cover everything in the city.

Hugh walked among them, his few biting criticisms achieving far more than the empty bluster of Helbye. One of Bohemond’s most trusted knights, Hugh had been left in charge of a small garrison to guard Bohemond’s interests in Jerusalem, while Bohemond himself fought for a kingdom of his own in the north. Fiercely loyal, Hugh took this trust seriously, only too aware that his and Roger’s men combined were pitifully few compared to the ranks of those loyal to the Advocate. Tancred had fewer still, most protecting his lands in Galilee, with little more than the small contingency of English soldiers under Geoffrey representing him in the Holy City. While Geoffrey and Roger believed most power would be won and lost in the political games played at the Patriarch’s palace and the court of the Advocate, Hugh was uncertain, and he wanted his men ready to fight, should the occasion demand. Geoffrey and Roger humoured him by keeping their own men busy with drills and expeditions out into the desert too.

“Where is your chain mail?” yelled Geoffrey to Tom Wolfram, his youngest sergeant at arms.

“It is too hot …” began the inevitable protest.

Geoffrey cut him off abruptly. “Would you care to practice with me without your armour?” he asked, unsheathing his sword.

The young man blanched and took an involuntary step backward. “Oh, no …”

“Are you afraid that I might injure you with my superior skills?”

Wolfram nodded miserably. Others had stopped their practice and were watching the exchange with interest.

“Then you are even more foolish than I thought,” said Geoffrey, putting his weapon away. “You are in far more danger from these hacking amateurs than from me. I would not injure you deliberately, but one of them might well do so by accident.”

The young man blushed scarlet, and Geoffrey felt uncomfortable at berating him in front of the men. Wolfram was not the first soldier to practice in his shirt sleeves, preferring the risk of injury to the intense discomfort of wearing the heavy, stifling chain mail that would protect him. But Geoffrey had warned the young man on several occasions that practising swordplay without armour was not permitted, and yet Wolfram still persisted. Trained soldiers were becoming increasingly scarce, and no knight could afford to lose one through a stupid, wholly avoidable accident.

Leaving Wolfram glowering resentfully, Geoffrey set off with Roger toward the gates, Helbye and Fletcher in tow and the dog worrying about his heels. As always, the gates were closed, and they waited while the soldier on duty hauled the thick bar from the wicket gate to let them out.

Geoffrey and Roger squeezed through the gate and began to walk down David Street toward the Dome of the Rock, where the bodies of Brother Jocelyn and Sir Guido had been found. It was late morning, and the heat was already intense, seeming to encompass the city in a bubble of sizzling silence. Geoffrey’s dog slunk after them, dodging back and forth across the road to take advantage of the scant shade. Distantly, the sound of monks chanting Nones rose and fell, giving the city an air of serenity that was far from real.

David Street ran into Temple Street, the road that led to the Dome of the Rock. It was wide and lined with flat-roofed houses that were once a brilliant white, but now the paint was fading and stained. Since the Crusaders had come, it was the practice of the local population to keep their doors locked, whether the occupants were in or not, but the window shutters on the upper floors were thrown open, revealing intricate patterns on the wood in bright colours. Then Geoffrey and Roger passed a mosque, its once-proud minarets cracked and leaning dangerously, and its horn windows smashed by stones.

Toward the Dome of the Rock, Temple Street grew narrower, and the houses seemed taller, looming upward so that the sky appeared as a tiny strip of blue high above. It meant the road was shady, and cooler than the furnace of David Street, and the soldiers stepped forward gratefully. Merchants had their wares on display outside their shops, but their restful positions changed to watchfulness as Geoffrey and his men passed.

Ahead of them, sunlight slanted between the houses, opaque with dust, and creating dark shadows on the walls. Geoffrey smiled to himself. Despite the conflict, the unease, and the fact that a soldier was ill-advised to wander alone in many parts of the city, Jerusalem was a beautiful place. He thought the Dome of the Rock was one of the most splendid buildings he had ever seen, perhaps even more than the fabulous Church of Santa Sophia in Constantinople.

Geoffrey and Roger reached the wall that surrounded the Dome and its gardens, and were allowed in by a Hospitaller. Then they were at the foot of the great Dome of the Rock itself, a massive cupola atop walls of breathtaking blue and turquoise mosaics that dominated the city from its position at the summit of Mount Moriah. Geoffrey stood still, as he always did, to gaze at the gilded dome and the decorative glazed tiling of the walls. Helbye, not anticipating his abrupt stop, bumped into him and exchanged a look of long-suffering incomprehension with Roger.

“We could learn so much from this,” said Geoffrey softly, staring at the dome glittering gold against the deep blue of the sky. “We have nothing like this in our own country.”

“That is because we are not Mohammedans,” said Roger, taking him firmly by the arm and ushering him through the door. He looked around and shuddered dramatically. “And even though this is said to be a church now the Saracens have been ousted from it, it still feels like a heathen temple to me.”

Inside, the Dome was cool and cavernous, and somewhere a monk was chanting, his voice echoing serenely through the forest of pillars. Geoffrey stopped again and gazed around in admiration.

“But the Church of Santa Sophia is domed, very much like this,” he said, disengaging his arm and moving to inspect one of the slender white marble columns that supported delicate arches. “Yet we do not use architecture of this type in England or Normandy.”