Jack Hight: Holy War

Heraclius raised his arms and began to pray in his high, piercing voice. John hated the sound of it. He had painful memories of Heraclius purring in his ear while the priest tortured John after he had been captured fighting for the Saracens at Butaiah. John might now serve as Heraclius’s deputy, but the two men still hated one another.

‘Will he ever stop talking?’ William muttered as he stamped his feet. The Archbishop of Tyre’s dislike for Heraclius was no secret. ‘It is damnably cold, and his Latin is so poor no one can understand him anyway. Did he just call the faithful the erect of God?’

The constable Amalric snorted in amusement and was joined by his brother, Sibylla’s husband Guy. Guy was clean-shaven, with long blond hair and emerald-green eyes. He would have been handsome were it not for his snub nose, an unfortunate feature that he shared with his brother. Neither man knew any Latin, but they both had a crude sense of humour.

‘And I am delighted to learn that Jerusalem is the bookmark of cities,’ William continued. ‘How can anyone confuse regestum and regina ? What does that make Acre, I wonder? The inkpot? You should never have made him patriarch, Your Grace.’

‘Don’t you start,’ Baldwin snapped. ‘I had to do something to heal the rift in my court. I cannot defend my kingdom against the Saracens while my own subjects are at one another’s throats.’

After his great victory at Montgisard, Baldwin had sought to reconcile the two factions that split his court: on the one side his mother, Agnes, with her brother, Joscelin, Guy and Amalric of Lusignan and Reynald of Chatillon, lord of Oultrejourdain; and on the other the old families represented by Raymond of Tripoli, Reginald of Sidon, the Balians and William. When old Humphrey of Toron died in battle, the king had appointed Amalric constable to replace him. Baldwin had betrothed his half-sister Isabella to young Humphrey of Toron, heir of one of the old families but also Reynald’s stepson. And after the patriarch died, he had allowed his mother to choose his successor. Agnes had surprised no one by selecting her pet, Heraclius. Baldwin had been pleased. His mother was happy, and her choice meant that he could keep William as chancellor.

Heraclius finally finished his prayer, and the procession continued into the church. They made a tour around the sepulchre — a stone structure topped with a cupola on which stood a larger-than-life silver statue of Christ — and were then led through the colonnade that separated the sanctuary from the rest of the church. John went to the altar to help Heraclius perform the Mass, while Baldwin took a grateful seat on his throne and the canons went to their benches. The rest of the procession remained just outside the sanctuary. The populace flooded through the doors to join them. Men-at-arms held them back from the lords and the king’s family, forcing them to the back of the church.

John held the large prayer book while Heraclius read. But even as John assisted with the service, his focus was on the king. Baldwin sat rigidly straight on his throne, in a pose intended to convey authority. And perhaps it did so to the people outside the sanctuary. John was closer, though, and he could see the veins standing out in the king’s neck and the crown trembling on his brow. When the service ended, he went to the throne, but Baldwin waved him away and stood. John stayed close as the king strode from the sanctuary and through the crowd, allowing the people to touch him. The touch of the king was said to cure disease, but John did not understand how the people could believe that when Baldwin could not even cure himself. Outside, horses were waiting. John helped the king into the saddle and they trotted to the palace, the new-fallen snow swallowing up the sound of the horses’ hooves. John helped Baldwin from the saddle and followed him inside. The moment he passed through the door, the strength that had seemed to animate Baldwin vanished. His legs failed, and John had to catch him to keep him from falling.

‘Carry me, John,’ Baldwin whispered, his voice weak.

John lifted him with ease. The king was all skin and bones. John carried him to his chamber and deposited him in a chair before the fire. He tucked a blanket around the shaking man.

William had followed them in. He shrugged off his cloak and moved to the fire to warm his hands. ‘Bring warm wine for the King!’ the priest called.

‘The wine can wait,’ Baldwin countered. ‘Bring me Amalric and Jos.’

William exchanged a glance with John and then nodded. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’ He left to retrieve the constable and seneschal, while John went to fetch the wine himself. He was pouring a glass when William returned with Amalric.

‘Your Grace,’ the constable murmured.

The seneschal, Joscelin of Courtenay, entered a moment later. He was a short man, with the same slim build, wavy blond hair and blue eyes as his sister Agnes. He bowed gracefully. ‘Your Grace, I apologize for my absence at Mass. I was occupied with-’

‘That is not why I have asked you here, Uncle. The whores you fuck may trouble your wife, but they are no concern of mine.’ Baldwin paused to look at each of the men gathered around him. ‘I have brought you here to discuss war.’

‘War, Your Grace?’ Amalric’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. ‘The last I heard, Saladin’s army was far off in Al-Jazirah.’

‘Yes, and his absence is a chance not to be missed. As soon as the army is gathered, we will march on Damascus.’

John glanced at the men around him. Their stunned expressions mirrored his own surprise. Joscelin was the first to recover. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace, but is that wise? Perhaps we can attack later, when you have recovered your strength.’

‘I am a leper, Jos! Rest will not cure what ails me. Last year, I walked in the procession with hardly an ache. This year, it was all I could do not to collapse before I reached the palace. My days are numbered, and my heir is only a child. I must make the Kingdom secure before I die, or I fear it will not stand.’

‘The King is right,’ John agreed. ‘Once Saladin has Aleppo and Mosul in hand, he will turn on us. If we wait, we will fall.’

‘What of peace, John?’ William asked. ‘You once told me that Saladin was a reasonable man.’

‘He was. Since Montgisard, I am not so sure. .’ John had heard disturbing rumours coming from Egypt, where Turan had died a suspicious death, and from Aleppo, where the young emir had been poisoned.

Baldwin nodded. ‘John knows Saladin better than any of us.’

‘I too spent many years amongst the Saracens, Nephew,’ Jos said. As a young man, he had been a prisoner of Nur ad-Din for twelve years after being captured at the Battle of Harim. ‘I spent much of that time in Damascus, and I tell you it is no easy prize. Your father failed to take it, as did your uncle before him.’

Baldwin straightened in his chair. ‘I am not my father. Gather the army, Amalric. Damascus will fall.’

December 1182: Damascus

John’s horse splashed through a muddy stream that ran along the floor of the narrow ravine, or wadi. He had made this trip many times: in 1148 as part of the doomed Second Crusade; in the opposite direction while serving as the commander of Yusuf’s private guard; and most recently in 1174, with Baldwin’s father. He did not remember crossing any streams, but then again, much of this trip had been unfamiliar. Steady rain had transformed the landscape. Where once there had been only dusty hills and dry ravines, now there were rivulets and desert flowers blooming in the rain. John’s horse was caked in mud, and he found it impossible to stay dry, no matter how tightly he wrapped his cloak about himself. He hunched forward in the saddle, shivering in the cold wind that blew from the sea.