Jack Hight - Holy War

‘I only did what you should have done, Your Grace.’

Richard’s voice became dangerously quiet, almost a whisper. ‘You think you know my duty better than I, priest?’

‘I know it.’

Richard stood, knocking his chair over, and John tensed, ready to fight if needs be. ‘I promised you an earldom if you made peace on my terms, John. You failed. I shall have you cast in chains for our return to England.’

‘I will not be returning to England, Your Grace.’

‘You will go where I say! You are my man.’

‘I am God’s man.’ John met Richard’s blue eyes. ‘And I thank God for that. You are a great warrior, but you have put your sword in the service of only you, not God. I will not serve you a moment longer. Not if my life depended on it, Your Grace.’

‘I will have your head,’ Richard growled.

‘Then you will have no peace.’

Richard clenched the edge of the table. His face shaded purple with rage. ‘Go, then. Go! Go before I kill you myself!’

‘Your Grace.’ John bowed. ‘Godspeed on your journey.’

September 1192: Ramlah

Rain pattered off the roof of the pavilion. The men inside were huddled together uncomfortably close; the Franks on one side of the table where the treaty sat, the Saracens on the other. John had watched the pavilion’s shadow slowly shrink away to almost nothing while the treaty was read in its entirety, first in French, then in Latin and finally in Arabic. He clenched his teeth as Imad ad-Din droned on. The leg John had injured at Arsuf was aching, and blood had started to seep through the bandages to wet his tunic.

Yusuf’s secretary finally finished reading, and Henry stepped forward. As king of Jerusalem, he would be the first to take his oath. The other Frankish lords would give their oaths to him. ‘I, Henry, Count of Champagne and Lord of Jerusalem, ruler of the Kingdom, in the presence of Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron and many other honourable men, both Christian and Muslim, swear that I will abide by the terms of this treaty. .’

After John had left Richard, the king had continued to rage for a full day, but in the end, he had agreed to honour the terms of the treaty. He had little choice. He was desperately needed in England, and even though he still longed to fight, he had no army.

Henry was reaching the end of his oath. ‘And if any of my lords do not observe the terms therein, then let their lands be forfeit. And if I or my successors do not observe this treaty, then let our word be counted for nothing, and our rule stripped from us. All this do I swear on this third day of September, in the eleven hundred and ninety-second year of Our Lord.’

Joscius, the archbishop of Tyre, whom Henry had named his chancellor, stepped forward with the king’s seal. It was two-sided: one side showing the king seated on his throne; the other, the tower of David, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock. Two seals had been prepared in advance, one for each copy of the treaty. Joscius attached them to the treaties with ribbons that had been embedded in the wax.

Balian gave his oath next, followed by Humphrey of Toron and Reginald of Sidon. The Grand Masters of the Hospital and the Temple swore to uphold the treaty. Then it was the turn of the English lords: Blanchemains, Bishop Walter, de Preaux, de Ferriers and John.

‘And what of Richard?’ Selim asked after John had given his oath.

‘The King recognizes the terms of the peace,’ Blanchemains replied, ‘but he will not give his oath, nor will he make pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He bid me deliver this promise: once the peace is over, he will return to take Jerusalem.’

Selim frowned. ‘Those are words of war, not peace.’

‘It is the King’s actions that matter, not his words,’ Balian assured him. ‘More than half his men have already left for home. Richard himself will be on a ship before another month has passed.’

‘If Richard will not swear, then nor shall Saladin. His men and I will take the oath in his name.’

Balian looked to Henry. The king nodded. ‘Very well. Proceed.’

Selim cleared his throat. ‘I swear by Allah that I will keep the peace and honour the terms of this treaty.’ As he spoke, Imad ad-Din traced Selim’s signature on the two copies of the treaty. Al-Afdal swore next, then Az-Zahir and Al-Mashtub. Imad ad-Din recorded their names. Qaraqush gave his oath last of all, after which there ensued an awkward silence in which the only sound was that of Imad ad-Din’s quill scratching on the parchment. The secretary finished and set the quill aside.

There were no smiles, no exclamations of joy. The Saracens were no doubt thinking of how close they had come to driving the Franks from their lands once and for all. The Christians simply looked tired.

‘It is done,’ Selim declared at last. ‘As a sign of friendship, Saladin wishes to invite you to a feast in his tent.’

‘We would be honoured to attend,’ Henry replied.

Selim led them further into the Saracen camp, to a tent large enough to hold more than a hundred men. A long, low table ran down its centre, with glasses of wine on one side and glasses of water on the other. The Franks took their places, with Henry at their centre, and the Saracens followed suit. John found a place near the end of the table. The space opposite Henry had been left open for Saladin. Selim raised his glass. ‘My brother does not wish us to wait on him. Eat, drink!’

John took a sip of wine. There was a tap on his shoulder, and Az-Zahir leaned close to whisper in his ear. ‘My father wishes to see you. Come.’

John followed him to a much smaller tent and Az-Zahir held the flap aside. John limped inside to find Yusuf seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his cheekbones protruded sharply from his face. His mouth was turned down at the ends, making him look melancholy. His robes hung like clothes on a scarecrow. He gestured to a cushion across from him. ‘Sit, friend.’ John lowered himself with care. ‘Your wound pains you. I am sorry, John.’

‘Do not be. I am old, Yusuf. If not my wound, it would be my back, or my shoulder.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I hardly eat any more, my gut troubles me so. Perhaps peace will cure my ills. I have not seen Damascus in years, nor Shamsa. .’ His voice trailed off and his eyes took on a far-away look, as if he were gazing at distant mountains. ‘I do not know what I shall do now that peace has come. I have spent my life fighting the Franks. I knit my kingdom together with the hope of defeating them. What shall we hope for now? What will hold my people together?’

‘You will.’

‘But for how long? After I took Jerusalem, I dreamed of peace, of the flourishing kingdom I would build. Now that peace has come, I fear I shall not enjoy it long. I am weak, John. The fire in my belly burns without cease; it eats me up from the inside. It is Allah, punishing me for my crimes. I have done terrible things.’

‘You are a king. You did what you must.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I once believed that. Now, I am not so sure. I had Turan killed. Asimat, too, and Al-Salih. . my own son, John.’ Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I have not admitted that to anyone. I am a monster.’

‘I killed my brother, Yusuf. If you are a monster, then so am I.’

‘That was different.’

‘We both have blood on our hands, but it is not our past that defines us. You tamed the Lionheart. You have brought peace to the Holy Land. You have opened Jerusalem to Franks and Muslims alike. This is how you will be judged.’

‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘But I did not call you here to speak of these things. I wished to thank you.’

‘Thank me?’