Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

Meanwhile, Wolfram had recovered and was also advancing on Geoffrey with sword drawn. Geoffrey looked from Wolfram to Hugh, trying to ascertain who would attack him first. Geoffrey spun round and raced at Wolfram, forcing the young man to retreat rapidly to avoid being hacked to pieces by Geoffrey’s expertly wielded weapon. Wolfram would know he could never beat Geoffrey in such a confrontation, but Wolfram had Hugh. Hugh spurred his horse forward a second time, driving the terrified beast to where Geoffrey sparred with the young soldier. At the very last moment, Geoffrey threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his hands. One of the horse’s hooves smashed into his thigh, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Yelling with savage delight, Wolfram dived at him, while Hugh brought his horse in a tight circle to bear down on them again. Geoffrey was still off-balance, and Wolfram’s graceless lunge knocked him to the ground again. Then Hugh was on them, his sword whirling and slashing, and the hooves thundering into the ground all around them.

Wolfram went limp. Geoffrey struggled out from underneath him and saw that one of Hugh’s wild swipes had cut deeply into the young soldier’s back.

“Should have been wearing your chain mail,” Geoffrey muttered as he rolled the lifeless body away and struggled to his feet yet again. Gritting his teeth, he turned to face Hugh. He could see the glitter of Hugh’s eyes under his helmet, and saw that he smiled. As far as Hugh was concerned, this contest was already won: Geoffrey was limping and had lost his helmet. Hugh knew that Geoffrey’s chances of besting a mounted knight of Hugh’s experience and skill were remote. He began to relax.

Geoffrey hurled his sword away and drew his dagger, leaping toward the back of Hugh’s horse where Hugh could not see him. Roaring with fury, Hugh wheeled his horse around in a tight circle. But Geoffrey moved with it, using his dagger to hack and slice at the leather straps that anchored the saddle to the horse’s back. The horse reared in terror and pain, and Hugh fought to control it. A flailing hoof caught Geoffrey a glancing blow on the chin and sent him sprawling. Within moments, Hugh was with him, crashing to the ground with his saddle tangled about his legs.

Now is the time, Geoffrey’s instincts screamed at him, while Hugh struggled to free himself from the saddle and its clinging stirrups. But the blow to his chin had left him dazed, and it was all he could do to climb groggily to his feet. He made a feeble lunge at Hugh with his dagger, but Hugh punched him away and succeeded in freeing himself. When Geoffrey’s vision cleared of the exploding lights that blinded him, he found he had dropped dagger and shield, and faced Hugh unarmed. Eyes glittering, Hugh advanced with his sword and raised his arm for the strike that would rid him of the man who had thwarted all his plans. Geoffrey met his gaze unflinchingly.

The blow never came. Hugh’s expression changed from one of twisted malice to one of surprise, and his sword descended slowly. Behind him stood Roger, and Hugh buckled and fell to the ground. In his back was a curved dagger with a jewelled hilt.

“Took a fancy to this when I saw it in his room,” said Roger, bracing a foot against Hugh’s back and retrieving it. He showed it to Geoffrey, turning it in his hands. “Fancy, eh?”

Geoffrey tore his eyes away from the bloody dagger and back to Roger. “Have we succeeded?”

“Aye, lad. Courrances and his monks wreaked havoc in the middle part, and the trapped men trying to escape hindered the fighting at the back and the front. I killed that treacherous Father Almaric-he was wearing chain mail, would you believe, and he had a sword! And I got Maria’s lad, Adam, too, and Courrances killed Armand, among others.” He paused, looking at the bodies strewn across the road in satisfaction. “Those goats worked a treat.”

Only just, thought Geoffrey wearily. He looked around for his dog and saw it gnawing something bloody between its paws. He hoped it was only an animal. He glanced toward the village, and saw Courrances and d’Aumale rounding up the few remaining soldiers in Hugh’s army, and setting them to gather up those who had been killed. It appeared to have been a massacre, and Geoffrey suddenly felt sick.

“It is not as if we have nothing better to do,” he said to a bemused Roger. “This whole land is surrounded by hostile Saracens, and all we can do is kill each other! Perhaps we are not fit to be here at all and should give up our claims to others.”

“Don’t talk daft, lad,” said Roger. He gestured at the slowly growing heap of corpses in the street. “The world is a better place without the likes of them in it.”

On the ground, Hugh gave a soft groan and forced himself onto his back. Geoffrey and Roger exchanged a glance and looked down at him dispassionately. Hugh saw them and smiled.

“I always thought it would be glorious to die in battle with my friends.”

“But you expected to be in battle with your friends, not against them,” said Roger, slightly indignantly. “Besides, we are not dying.”

Hugh’s smile widened, showing teeth that were stained with blood. Geoffrey knelt next to him, repelled by the whole treacherous business.

“Was it worthwhile, Hugh?” asked Geoffrey softly. He gestured to the pile of soldiers’ bodies. “Your men are dead, and you will soon follow them.”

“It was worthwhile,” Hugh responded. “I sent word to Bohemond two weeks ago that I was going to kill the Advocate, and that he should be ready to step forward to claim Jerusalem. Even as we talk, he will be massing his troops in anticipation.”

“But he will find the Advocate alive,” said Geoffrey. “And no one will support Bohemond if he tries to snatch the leadership by force. The Advocate was crowned in the Holy Sepulchre by the Patriarch himself.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh wearily. “But the Advocate is weak, and even his own men are wavering in their loyalty to him. You think you have won because I am dying. But there are others who think like me and it will only be a matter of time before one of them succeeds. And regardless, Bohemond will come soon with a great force, and you two will have no choice but to fight for him.”

“How do you know he will come?” asked Geoffrey. “He might decide he wants no crown won with blood.”

“Oh, that will not bother him,” put in Roger cheerfully. “Bohemond is no lily-livered monk.”

“I sent word to him with a man whom I know will be able to persuade him of his best options,” Hugh whispered. “Sir Guibert of Apulia took my message that Bohemond should prepare himself two weeks ago.”

Geoffrey gazed at him. “Sir Guibert is dead,” he said softly.

Hugh’s eyes grew round with horror, but then he dismissed Geoffrey’s claim. “You lie. Guibert would not fail me or Bohemond.”

“Doubtless not,” said Geoffrey. “But Guibert and his soldiers were attacked by Saracens before they ever reached Bohemond, and were killed to a man. Tancred told me about it in a message he sent from Haifa. He was curious as to why Guibert should be in the desert at all, and thought it sufficiently odd to mention in his letter. Bohemond did not receive your message.”

The colour drained from Hugh’s face, and he closed his eyes.

There was a shout of warning from Helbye, whom Roger had posted to watch the road for any reinforcements that Hugh might have had stashed further away. Roger dashed for his horse, while Geoffrey snatched up Hugh’s sword, anticipating another skirmish. There was no time to arrange a second ambush: they would simply have to do battle as they were.

Helbye strode forward to intercept a small party of soldiers that was riding toward Jerusalem, and Geoffrey watched as the sergeant engaged in a hurried exchange of words. Geoffrey saw Helbye’s jaw drop, and then the sergeant seemed to collect himself. He came racing toward Geoffrey.