Jack Hight - Holy War

‘The doctor tells me he may not survive,’ the constable said.

‘He will live. He is too stubborn to die.’

‘He also said the King is blind and crippled.’

‘Perhaps when the fever leaves him-’

‘A crippled king cannot rule,’ Amalric said with certainty. ‘We must return to Jerusalem and choose a regent.’

January 1183: Jerusalem

Smoke from the bakeries and kitchens of Jerusalem hung in the clear blue sky, showing John where the city lay long before the walls came into view. The sunshine and unseasonably warm January weather were at odds with the sombre mood of the army as it trudged the last miles to the city. Amalric had sent messengers galloping ahead to call for a meeting of the Haute Cour. They would have reached the city in only two days. The main body of the army had taken six days to make the journey from Damascus; they had been slowed by the king, who was carried in a covered litter to spare him the bumps and jolts of the road. Baldwin had awoken twice to murmur incoherently. At least the doctor had managed to feed him a little broth before the king lapsed back into unconsciousness.

The litter-bearers were now struggling up the hill past rows of grapevines. John spurred ahead. From the top, he could see the north wall of Jerusalem, the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templum Domini rising behind it. Two dozen knights had set out from Saint Stephen’s Gate and were making their way towards the army. The flag of Jerusalem flew over them. Next to it was another banner: on the left a field of blue topped with a band of gold; on the right three red disks on a field of gold. They were the arms of Agnes of Courtenay.

John urged his horse down the far side of the hill at a canter. He slowed to a walk as he approached Agnes. Her face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. The king’s mother had aged gracefully, but now she looked every one of her forty-nine years. ‘John,’ she greeted him. ‘How is he?’

Agnes had been his lover once, but she had betrayed him for power. She had bedded the constable Amalric — and likely other men besides — to establish her influence at court. And she had masterminded the plot that led to the death of the previous king. John despised her even as he desired her, but today, in the face of her grief, he could not summon his usual resentment. ‘He is rarely conscious,’ he told her. ‘He has lost his sight and the use of his arms and legs.’

Agnes blinked back tears. ‘Where is he?’

‘I will take you to him.’

John headed back up the hill with Agnes riding beside him. ‘You must be on your guard in Jerusalem,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are those who mean harm to my son, and to those who would protect him.’

‘Who? And why tell me this? Do not pretend that you care for me.’

‘I do not need to pretend, John. But if you will not believe that, then perhaps you will believe this. My daughter Sibylla wants Baldwin dead. If he dies, then she becomes queen, and her husband Guy will take power, along with his friends Reynald and Heraclius. You would do anything to protect Baldwin, and so would I. That makes us allies, and puts us both in danger.’

They had reached the litter, and Agnes dismounted and entered to ride with her son. Her men fell in around the carriage. John followed them. As he approached the gate, he took his mace from his saddlebag and hung it from his belt. He did not trust Agnes, but it would not hurt to be cautious.

At the palace, the courtyard was filled with anxious guards and servants. They watched silently as Agnes stepped out of the litter and began to issue orders. ‘You men,’ she snapped, waving at some of the guards near the door. ‘Bring a stretcher for the King.’ The men returned a moment later, and Baldwin was transferred to the stretcher. ‘Take him to my quarters,’ Agnes instructed. ‘I will care for him myself.’ Four men lifted the stretcher, and she accompanied them into the palace.

John started to follow, but the guards framing the door crossed their spears to bar his way. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ John demanded. ‘I am the King’s councillor.’ He was about to call out to Agnes when two more guards grabbed his arms from behind.

‘Come quietly now,’ one of them whispered in his ear, ‘and we’ll do you no harm, father.’ He reached for John’s mace, but John managed to pull away. He elbowed the man in the throat, then took his mace and swung for the guard holding his left arm. His mace clanged off the man’s helmet, dropping him. Next moment, John felt a blow to the back of his head. He slumped to the ground, and the world went black.

He jerked awake only a moment later. He felt the back of his head and winced. His hair was wet with blood. The four guards were standing around him. John started to rise when one of them punched him in the gut, doubling him over.

‘Leave that man be!’

John looked up to see Agnes’s brother Joscelin of Courtenay standing in the doorway to the palace.

The guards stepped away from John. ‘The regent said-’ one of them began.

‘I am the seneschal, and I tell you I will see to him.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The guards moved away. Joscelin helped John to rise and kept hold of his arm as he guided him inside the palace.

‘Thank you, Jos. What was that about?’ Joscelin led them down a staircase, away from Agnes’s quarters. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The dungeons.’ John stopped and pulled his arm free. Joscelin met his eyes. ‘You can follow me willingly, John, or I can have the guards take you.’

John’s gaze went to the dagger at Joscelin’s belt. The seneschal was a small man. He could overpower him. With his dagger, he might get past the guards outside and to a horse. But even if he managed to get away, where would he go? John still remembered the look of hatred that Yusuf had given him before he limped off the field at Montgisard. His friend would not take him in. ‘Lead on,’ he said and fell in behind the seneschal. The stairs ended in a long hallway. The air was chill and damp. Their footsteps echoed loudly. ‘Why?’

‘Regent’s orders.’

‘The regent?’

‘Guy.’

‘The Council chose Guy?’ Sibylla’s husband was brave enough, but John was surprised that the native lords had not selected one of their own.

‘The Council has not yet met,’ Joscelin said as he led John down another, narrower staircase. ‘Sibylla came up from Ascalon three days ago at the head of two hundred knights led by Reynald of Chatillon. She named her husband regent, and with the army gone to Damascus, there was no one to stop her.’ Joscelin frowned. ‘We had best get used to it. She will be queen when her brother dies.’

‘Baldwin will live.’

‘You had best hope so. Heraclius has the ear of the queen, and he has sworn you will rot to death before you see the light of day. You made a mistake when you made an enemy of that one.’

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped before a thick wooden door. Joscelin knocked, and the grille in the centre of the door slid open to reveal a man’s face. He was bald, with sallow skin that hung from his cheeks in folds.

‘I bring a prisoner,’ Joscelin told the gaoler. ‘The priest, John of Tatewic.’

The gaoler grunted and slid the grille shut. There was the clank of a key in the lock, and the door swung open. The gaoler proved to be a block of a man, dressed entirely in boiled leather. He raised a wicked-looking mace with a head of grooved steel. ‘If you make any trouble, I’ll spill your brains on the floor, priest.’ He returned the mace to his belt and began to pat at John’s robes, looking for weapons or coin. After finding neither, he moved to close the door.