Jack Hight: Holy War

‘I will think on it.’ Baldwin stepped away from the table. ‘Pray with me, John.’ They knelt. The ground had been covered in carpets, but they were wet, water having seeped through from the muddy ground beneath.

‘ De profundis clamavi ad te domine ,’ John began. ‘ Domine, exuadi vocem meam .’ When he had finished the De profundis , he added, ‘Lord God, strengthen the arm of your servant Baldwin, that he might win victory in your name. Grant him the wisdom to lead his men wisely, and the grace to treat his enemy with compassion.’

Baldwin took his helmet from the table and started for the tent flap, but stopped. He drew his sword and turned to John. ‘Bless my blade.’

John made the sign of the cross over the sword. ‘I beseech thee, O Lord, to hear our prayers and to bless with your majesty the sword of your servant Baldwin. May it be the scourge and terror of your enemies and the salvation of the people of God.’

‘ Amen !’

John followed Baldwin outside. The thousand sergeants who would attack the southern wall had already formed a column bristling with spears. Some of them carried scaling ladders; others held ropes with grappling hooks or heavy crossbows to pick defenders off the wall. The rest of the sergeants were just beginning to form ranks. The knights were mounting their horses and being handed lances and kite-shaped shields by their squires.

‘My horse!’ Baldwin shouted. One of the king’s squires led forth a chestnut destrier. It pranced as it came, showing off a thickly muscled chest and hindquarters. The seat of the saddle was taller than Baldwin, and it took two squires to help him mount in his heavy armour. Another squire handed Baldwin his shield. He urged the horse towards where the knights were gathering, but it had only taken a few steps when the king swayed, then fell from the saddle.

John was the first to reach him. ‘My lord!’ he cried, but there was no response. As the squires and knights gathered around, John gently removed Baldwin’s helmet. There was a swelling bump on the king’s temple where he had struck his head during the fall. ‘My lord!’ John repeated, this time shouting.

Baldwin’s eyes fluttered open. He stared straight at John, but did not seem to see him. ‘It’s poisoned. .’ he murmured. ‘Father! Father!’ His eyes closed as he lost consciousness.

John looked to one of Baldwin’s squires. ‘A doctor. Fetch a doctor!’ The boy raced off. ‘Carry the King to his tent,’ John ordered the onlooking knights.

Four men took hold of the king. John was following them to Baldwin’s tent when Amalric grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. ‘What of the men?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘The battle?’

‘Are you mad? The King is ill. We cannot fight.’

‘But the men stand ready,’ Amalric protested. ‘We may not have another chance to take Damascus. It would be a great victory.’

‘A great victory for you.’ Amalric opened his mouth to protest, but John continued before he could speak. ‘And a bitter defeat if you should lose. With the King ill, you would bear all the blame.’

‘Yes,’ Amalric murmured, his brow furrowed. ‘Yes. I will tell the men to return to their tents.’

Amalric began shouting orders. John hurried inside. The knights had laid Baldwin on his bed and removed his mail shirt. The padded vest beneath was soaked with sweat. The king’s fingers began to tremble, and soon his whole body was shaking. The knights stepped back.

‘He is cursed,’ one of them muttered.

‘It is a fever, nothing more.’ John drew a blanket over the king, and the shaking soon ceased.

A moment later, the doctor entered. He was a clean-shaven man in a monk’s brown robes. He looked young enough to be John’s son. The doctor carried a trunk, which he set down at the foot of the king’s bed. ‘Off with you,’ he instructed the knights. ‘You, too, father. Leave me to my work.’

The knights trooped out of the tent, but John stopped at the flap. The doctor placed the back of his hand on the king’s forehead. ‘He burns,’ he murmured. He began to chant the Pater Noster as he went about his work. He lit a brass brazier and placed a small pot on it. Into the pot he poured water and a splash of vinegar and added some white crystal, a handful of tiny seeds and some shavings that he peeled off a long root with his knife.

‘What is that?’ John asked.

The doctor looked up, startled. ‘I told you to leave.’

‘What is it?’

‘Horseradish, along with salt and caraway seeds. Together, they are an infallible cure for fever.’

The doctor continued to chant the Pater Noster until the water boiled. He put his face in the steam. ‘Good, good.’ He used the hem of his tunic to grip the pot and move it to the floor. ‘We must let it cool. Now I will restore his humours to balance.’

He opened his case and removed a small lancet and a bowl to collect blood. John crossed the tent and grabbed the doctor’s arm. ‘Do not bleed him.’

The doctor shook free. ‘Do not tell me my business. The King burns. I must reduce his blood to bring the fever down.’ He found a vein and took the blade of the lancet between his thumb and forefinger. Before the doctor could make the incision, John grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. The doctor gasped in pain. ‘Are you mad? Stop! I-’ He fell silent as John took the lancet from him and held the blade to the doctor’s throat.

‘If you bleed the King, you will bleed. Do you understand?’

‘Y-yes, father.’

‘John!’ Amalric cried as he entered the tent. ‘What are you doing? Unhand Brother Jaquemon.’

John released the doctor but kept the lancet.

‘Come,’ Amalric called. ‘This is no place for us. Let the man do his work in peace.’

Before John stepped out, he turned back to Jaquemon. ‘No bleeding.’

John spent the remainder of the day pacing before Baldwin’s tent. At first, several dozen anxious knights kept vigil with him, but when the rains returned, shortly after midday, they left one by one. Darkness was falling when Jaquemon finally emerged. He stopped short when he saw John. ‘I did not bleed him. I swear it!’

‘How is he?’

Jaquemon shook his head. ‘The fever is very bad. The King has not woken. Go to your tent. I will send for you if his condition changes.’

John spent a restless night tossing and turning on the damp ground as the rain beat down on the fabric of his tent. Over the next two days, while the men huddled in their tents attempting to stay dry, John stood in the rain outside Baldwin’s tent. He did not know what else to do. On the third night, John was standing by the tent flap, nodding off as he hunched beneath his cloak, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the doctor.

‘He is awake,’ Jaquemon said. ‘He asked for you.’

The interior of the tent was dark. John felt his way to the king’s bedside and knelt. He could just make out Baldwin’s face. A wet cloth lay across the king’s forehead. His eyes fluttered open.

‘John? Is that you?’

‘I am here, Your Grace.’

‘I–I cannot see, John.’

‘I will light the lamp, Your Grace.’

John started to rise. ‘No! It is not that. I cannot see. I am blind.’

John felt a pain in his chest. ‘You will recover,’ he told Baldwin, trying to convince himself as much as the king. ‘Once the fever has passed.’

‘I cannot move my arms, John.’ Baldwin’s voice trembled. ‘I am afraid.’

John gripped the king’s hand, unsure of what else to do. ‘You must drink something,’ he said at last. ‘You will feel better afterwards.’ John went to the pot the doctor had prepared and scooped out a cup of the potion. But when he returned to the king’s side, Baldwin was asleep. John set the cup down and sat beside the king. He gently pushed the hair back from Baldwin’s forehead. He looked up as Amalric entered the tent.