Jack Hight: Kingdom

John clenched his mouth shut, but Pepin grabbed his lower jaw with one hand and pulled back on his nose with the other. The second John’s mouth opened, Heraclius shoved in the pear. It tasted of metal and blood. Heraclius gave the wing nut a twist and the pear expanded slightly, forcing John’s mouth to open wider. John gagged and coughed. He jerked his head side to side, trying to spit the pear out, but Pepin grabbed him by the ears and held him still.

Heraclius’s eyes betrayed an eager excitement as he watched John squirm. ‘The pear of anguish is an ingenious piece of work, especially useful for punishing blasphemers and oath breakers. First, your jaw will dislocate.’ Heraclius gave the wing nut another twist, forcing John’s jaws further apart so that they began to ache. ‘Then the skin of your mouth will tear, disfiguring you.’ He gave another twist. John’s jaw felt as if it were going to snap. His fingernails dug into his palms as he fought the pain. ‘If I expand the pear all the way, then you will never lie again: you will be unable to speak.’

Heraclius reached out to give the wing nut another turn, but stopped at the sound of booted feet approaching. A dozen soldiers in mail entered the torture chamber, a tonsured priest in black robes at their head. John recognized the priest; it was William of Tyre, who John had met long ago when he first came to the Holy Land.

‘Stop!’ William demanded. ‘Leave that man be!’

Heraclius turned. ‘The Patriarch turned the Saxon over to me. You have no authority here, William.’

‘I have the King’s backing and the King’s men. That man is a noble. If he is to suffer then he must first stand trial before his peers.’

‘The Saxon killed our men. He threw his lot in with the infidel Saracens. He must be made to suffer if he is to be redeemed!’ Heraclius reached again for the wing nut at the end of the pear.

‘Stop him!’

Two guards grabbed Heraclius’s arms and pulled him away. William went to the rack and pulled a lever, releasing the tension on the ropes that bound John’s hands and feet. The guards removed the pear and began to untie John’s bonds. He groaned in relief as he gingerly flexed his arms and legs, and then gasped as a stab of pain shot through his left shoulder. William helped him to sit up just in time for John to see Heraclius being dragged from the room by two soldiers. At the door Heraclius managed to shrug them off. He turned to face John and William.

‘This is not the end!’ Heraclius spat. ‘The Saxon betrayed his oath. I will see that he goes before the High Court. And mark my words, William: he will burn!’

John awoke to the sound of a door creaking. He blinked against the bright light streaming in from a window above his bed. Yesterday, after his feet had been bandaged, he had been carried to this tiny room in the compound of the Knights Hospitaller. Overcome with exhaustion and pain, he had passed out as soon as they laid him in his bed.

Now he stretched out and rolled over, away from the wall. The door to the room was open and a lean young man in monk’s brown robes stood in the corner. The monk was clean-shaven and tonsured, and had sunken cheeks, a weak chin and protruding eyes. He reminded John of a praying mantis. He was sniffing at the contents of the bronze chamber pot. ‘His black bile is weak,’ the monk murmured to himself.

‘Who are you?’ John sat up, wincing at the pain in his left shoulder.

The monk looked up from the chamber pot. ‘Ah, you are awake. Good. My name is Deodatus, and I am a doctor. Father William has sent me to tend to you.’ He approached and nodded towards John’s feet. ‘May I?’

John swung himself around so his feet hung off the bed. Deodatus began to unwrap the bandages. The soles of John’s feet were covered in angry, red blisters that oozed a sticky, clear fluid. Deodatus touched one of the blisters, and John winced in pain. ‘Your flesh is hot. Your humours are out of balance,’ the doctor said gravely. ‘I understand you were subjected to the rack?’

‘Yes. I cannot move my left arm without pain.’

The doctor grasped John’s left wrist with one hand and placed his other hand on John’s shoulder. As Deodatus lifted the arm, a stabbing pain shot through John’s shoulder, as if a white-hot iron had been plunged into the joint. ‘’Sblood!’ John cursed through clenched teeth.

Deodatus shook his head and then went to a small, leather-bound trunk. He took out a handful of dried roots, a mortar and a pestle. He murmured the Pater Noster as he ground the root to powder.

‘What is that?’ John asked.

‘Daffodil root for the burns on your feet. It will draw the heat out.’ The doctor finished grinding the root and went to the chamber pot, from which he scooped out some faeces. John’s eyes widened as the doctor placed the faeces in the mortar and mixed it in with the daffodil root. The doctor approached the bed with the foul-smelling mixture.

John drew back his feet. ‘Keep that away from me!’

‘The faeces will help to restore your black bile,’ Deodatus assured him.

John’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Do you have any aloe?’

The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Aloe?’

‘A plant. It helps to cure burns. The doctor Ibn Jumay says-’

‘A Jewish doctor?’ Deodatus huffed. ‘His medicine will send you to the grave.’

‘I’ll take my chances with Jewish medicine. Keep that shit away from my feet.’

‘Very well. But you are still too sanguine. I must bleed you to reduce your heat.’

‘No,’ John replied firmly. ‘You will not.’

Deodatus spread his hands. ‘If you will not accept my aid then I cannot be responsible for the consequences. At least allow me to treat your shoulder. I fear the damage will fester, drawing foul humours to it.’ Deodatus reached into his trunk and pulled out a short saw. He tested the blade with his thumb. ‘The arm must come off.’ Deodatus stepped over to the bed. He gripped John’s shoulder and brought the saw blade down towards the joint. ‘This will hurt.’

‘Yes, it will.’ John grabbed the doctor’s cowl, pulled him forward and head-butted him. Deodatus stumbled back, his eyes wide and his nose dripping blood.

‘You’re mad! You’ll die if I don’t take the arm.’

‘Then I’ll die. If you touch my arm again, you’ll join me.’

‘Damned fool,’ Deodatus muttered as he hurriedly closed up his trunk and tucked it under his arm. ‘God help you!’ On the way out he bumped into William.

William watched the doctor go and then turned to John, eyebrows raised. ‘What happened?’

‘The man is a quack. He doesn’t know the first thing about medicine.’

‘But that is the court physician!’

‘A quack,’ John repeated. William looked as if he would pursue the matter, but then shrugged. John met his gaze. ‘I owe you my thanks. Were it not for you, I would still be in that dungeon.’

‘I did not do it for you. You may be of some use to us. But first we must save you from the hangman’s noose. The High Court meets tomorrow to hear your case. I will defend you.’

‘Why? All that Heraclius says is true. I chose to fight for the Saracens.’

‘I do not share Heraclius’s belief that suffering is the only road to salvation. Whatever sins you have committed, you should be given the chance to redeem them in service of the Kingdom. But if I am to defend you, I must know the truth. How did you come to be in the service of the Saracens?’

John closed his eyes, his mind racing back to his first days in the Holy Land. ‘I came as a soldier with the Second Crusade. I was captured at the siege of Damascus and purchased by Najm ad-Din Ayub, now the wali — the governor — of Damascus. I served as a household slave and then as the personal servant of Ayub’s son, Yusuf. After I saved his life, he freed me.’