Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

Geoffrey eyed him thoughtfully. “The knife had disappeared when I thought to look for it later, which was unfortunate. If we had it, we could compare it to the dagger that killed Sir Guido.”

“True. And if the woman you arrested is executed as a murderer, and another knight is killed, we will know that she was innocent.”

“I am sure she will be pleased to hear it,” said Geoffrey dryly. “But it is none of our concern. The Patriarch’s clerks are investigating the matter now, and then the Advocate will decide what should be done with her when he returns.”

“The Patriarch has a difficult task,” said Hugh with sudden seriousness. “He is here to wrest control of Jerusalem from the Advocate and hand it to the Pope. Meanwhile, the rioting of today underlines that the Greek Church bitterly resents the superiority of the Latin Church, and will rebel against it at every opportunity. Then there is the Latin Church itself-the Benedictines control the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but the Augustinians and Cistercians feel they should be in charge, and they petition the Patriarch about it constantly. Meanwhile, the Hospitallers, headed by your friend Edouard de Courrances, are supposed to care for sick pilgrims, but Courrances is as good a fighter as I have seen, and he parades around the city letting everyone know that he is more warrior than monk. And to top it all, the real enemy-the infidel-laughs at us as we fight among ourselves.”

Geoffrey smiled. “True enough. To be honest, I wonder whether it is time to leave here, and be away from all this bickering.”

“But you are in the employ of Tancred,” said Hugh. “How would he manage without you? You are his eyes and ears in this pit of intrigue.”

Geoffrey looked at him in horror. “Is that what you think? That Tancred sees me as his spy?”

Hugh made a dismissive gesture. “Not in a sinister way, but no one can deny you are useful to him. But you are right, Geoffrey. The time for soldiering is over: perhaps we should leave the city for the diplomats and politicians to haggle over.”

“And kill for,” said Geoffrey. “Like John and Guido.”

Hugh scrubbed at his smooth cheeks and stared into the fire. When he looked up again, Geoffrey was asleep, long legs stretched out comfortably, the flickering light making shadows of the etched lines about his mouth. Hugh leaned back in his chair and studied his friend’s soldierly features: brown hair cut short in Norman fashion, clean-shaven chin, and strong, long-fingered hands. He was about to rise and go to his own bed in a chamber on the floor above, when there was a sharp knock at the door.

Geoffrey was on his feet with his sword at the ready before Hugh could even reply. The fair-haired knight made a motion of disbelief at Geoffrey’s distrust, even locked up safe for the night in the citadel, making Geoffrey grin sheepishly.

Geoffrey opened the door and admitted Helbye.

“Lord Tancred asks that you attend him,” Helbye said, his words chosen hesitantly, for he was a fighting man, not a messenger, by nature.

“Now?” asked Geoffrey in disbelief, glancing at the darkness through the open window. “It is well past the curfew.”

“Now,” said Helbye. “He is a guest at the Patriarch’s palace tonight.” He paused, looking at the glowing embers of the fire. “I think he wants you for more than desert duties this time. A priest has just been found dead. The man who found the body says that the murder weapon was a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.”

Geoffrey walked alone through the dark streets toward the handsome palace that the Patriarch had requisitioned for himself and his sizeable retinue. Although it was only a short distance from the great, square keep of the citadel, Geoffrey was wary. The roads were empty after the dusk curfew, but his sharp eyes detected shadows flitting here and there, and at night the city seemed even more uneasy than during the day. It was late, and all God-fearing people should have been abed, sleeping after an exhausting day of honest labour under the Holy Land’s blazing sun. But the city did not sleep, and Geoffrey was painfully aware that his progress through the shadowy streets was watched with interest by more than one onlooker.

He forced himself to think about the business at hand. He was aware of the wild rumours that flew around the Crusader community regarding the murder of Sir Guido of Rimini three weeks before. Why anyone would want to kill the quiet Italian was a mystery to all, and his untimely death at the hands an Arab-style scimitar had been blamed on all manner of people: on wicked Greek priests from the Eastern Orthodox Church; on the aggressive Order of Benedictines, who bickered for power with other monks; on the little Jewish community who lived near the towering western wall and who tried to keep as far away from the squabbling Christians as possible; and on the handful of Moslems who had miraculously survived the massacre when the Crusaders had taken Jerusalem the previous year.

So which of these rumours was true? Or were they all wrong, and was there something even more sinister afoot? Geoffrey narrowed his eyes in thought as he walked. The Crusaders had set out on a golden cloud of piety and hope to rout unbelievers from the most holy place in the world. But the rot had begun to fester within days: Crusaders from one country refused to cooperate with those from another, and their leaders were all in desperate competition for power and riches. By the time the ragged, disease-depleted, greedy, undisciplined rabble had reached Jerusalem three years later, any illusion that this was a just war fought by God’s heroes had long been shattered.

Geoffrey jumped as a dark shadow glided across his path, and forced himself to relax when he saw the dull gleam of a cat’s yellow eyes. He was relieved when the dim lights of the Patriarch’s palace came into view. There were always lights burning at the Patriarch’s headquarters, as there were always candles glimmering at the windows of the citadel, where the Advocate lived. Geoffrey headed for the wicket gate in the huge bronze-plated door at the front of the palace, and knocked. It was opened at once-and slammed shut as soon as he had been ushered inside.

He was led through a maze of tiled corridors, off which doors of distinctive eastern design led. He had been in the palace on several occasions, but never at night and never further than the great state room in which the Patriarch conducted his public business. Now he was escorted to a small chamber on an upper floor, where he was furnished with a goblet of spiced wine and then abandoned. He looked around him. The little room was a far cry from the sumptuous hall below: worn carpets of faded colours replaced the glorious mosaic of the hall floor, and instead of the fabulous gilt-painted murals and Byzantine pillars there were plain whitewashed walls. Under the window was a roughly made table, piled high with parchments and scrolls. Naturally curious, Geoffrey unrolled one and began to read.

“Do you possess a knowledge of astronomy, as well as your other skills?”

Geoffrey turned with a smile of greeting to Tancred, and replaced the scroll on the table. Tancred, like his uncle Bohemond, was a formidable figure-tall, broad-shouldered, and with massive chest and arms. He kept his fair hair unusually short for a western knight, and like Geoffrey, he was clean-shaven. He came toward his old tutor with a welcoming grin.

“I heard you returned today from the desert. Any news?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “We found several abandoned camps and were attacked twice, but we uncovered no evidence that Arab forces are massing in the east. I suppose an attack, if there is one, will come from the Fatamids in Egypt.”