Jack Hight: Kingdom

‘And why did you not return to your people?’

‘Return to what? The lord I had served, Reynald, betrayed me at Damascus. It was because of him that I was captured. And the Frankish soldiers I had fought beside were brutes. Yusuf was different. He was cultured and kind. He was my friend.’

‘So when you were captured at Butaiha, you were fighting for this Yusuf. He was your lord?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will argue that you merely did your duty as a liegeman.’

John’s forehead creased as he thought of the men who had died at his hands. ‘But I broke my crusader’s oath. I killed Franks, more than one. I deserve to die.’

‘We have all fallen short of the glory of God, John, but death will not wash away your sins. You can only redeem your soul through action.’

‘How?’ John demanded bitterly. ‘It is not only Franks that I killed.’ He paused, thinking back to his home in England, to the manor of his childhood. ‘I killed my brother.’

‘Surely you had a reason?’

‘He betrayed my father to the Normans in return for land. My father was hanged, along with a dozen other local thanes.’ John shook his head. The reasons seemed almost unreal now, so long had it been since John saw England. Yet the reality of his brother’s death was always fresh in his mind. ‘He was a bastard, but he was my brother. I killed him, and nothing I can do will bring him back. It will not bring any of them back.’

‘No, but you can save others. God has sent you to us for a reason. You have lived in both worlds, East and West. You have spent years at the court in Aleppo. You can speak to the Saracens as we cannot, understand them as we cannot. You can help to bridge the gap that divides us. That is your one true chance at salvation.’

‘And if I die? Will the fire not wash me clean, as Heraclius says?’

‘Look into your soul. Do you believe that suffering will save you?’

John thought back on his years in the Holy Land: the brutal march to Damascus; his capture and near death; the beatings he had suffered as a slave; his torture at the hands of Heraclius. None of it had washed away his guilt. He met William’s eyes. ‘Show me what I must do.’

‘First we must get you through this trial. You have but to answer truthfully any questions that are asked of you.’

‘What are my chances?’

‘God does not deal in chance. We must trust in Him. I will come for you tomorrow, when it is time.’ William turned to leave.

‘You did not answer my question, Father,’ John called after him. ‘What are my chances?’

William looked back and shook his head. ‘Not good. Heraclius has stacked the court against you. And the punishment for treason is death.’

The bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were ringing to call the canons to morning prayers as John hobbled after William into the audience chamber where the High Court was meeting. He was barefoot, and the thick rugs that carpeted the floor were a blessed relief to his blistered feet after the hard stone pavement of the courtyard. The members of the court waited on the far side of the room. King Amalric sat on a simple wooden throne, the dome of the church visible through the window behind him. He was young, perhaps John’s age, but whereas John was lean and fit, the king was heavy-set, pudgy even. He had a ruddy complexion, straight hair the colour of straw and a slightly darker beard. His piercing blue eyes met John’s across the hall, and the King laughed suddenly, a clipped laugh that sounded loud against the silence of the hall. With a start John realized that he had met him before. When he first arrived in the Holy Land, John had attended a meeting of the High Court, and Amalric — only a child at the time — had been there. John had never forgotten that peculiar boy with his clear blue eyes and strange laugh. Now Amalric was king.

Two men framed the throne, and Heraclius sat beside two others on one of the benches that ran along the side walls. A single man sat on the bench opposite them. ‘This is the High Court?’ John whispered to William. ‘The last time I attended there were hundreds of men.’

‘Only four are needed for a quorum.’ William gestured to John’s right, where a dour, bony man dressed in gold-embroidered robes sat beside Heraclius. ‘That is the Patriarch of Jerusalem. He is the one who turned you over to be tortured.’ Next to the patriarch was a dark-haired man with a thick beard and unruly eyebrows that met in the middle. Over his mail armour he wore a black surcoat bearing the Knights Hospitallers’ distinctive cross: four white arrowheads, all touching at the tips. ‘Gilbert d’Assailly is Grand Master of the Hospitallers. He is an Englishman like you, but don’t expect any mercy from that quarter. He hates the Saracens with a passion. I have more hope for that man there.’ William pointed to the opposite side of the hall where a man with steel-grey hair sat straight-backed, wearing a white surcoat emblazoned with a red cross. ‘Bertrand de Blanchefort is Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and he is a man of reason. As for the King, his constable Humphrey and the seneschal Guy’ — he waved to the two stern, middle-aged men flanking the throne — ‘I do not know where they stand.’

They stopped a dozen feet from the throne, and John and William both knelt. ‘Rise,’ Guy commanded in a harsh voice. Judging from his olive skin and slight build, John guessed he had Saracen blood in him. As seneschal, it was Guy’s duty to preside over the court. ‘Present yourselves.’

‘I am Iain of Tatewic, called John.’

‘Silence!’ the seneschal snapped. ‘You have been accused of oath breaking. You are not to speak before this court.’

John opened his mouth to reply, but William shot him a warning look. ‘I am William of Tyre. I will speak for the accused.’

‘Very well.’ The seneschal nodded towards Heraclius. ‘The accuser will present his case.’

Heraclius rose, bowed to King Amalric and then stepped to the centre of the hall. He cleared his throat. ‘This Saxon, John of Tatewic, has betrayed his crusader’s oath, betrayed his faith and betrayed the Kingdom. He served the Saracens of his own free will. By his own admission, he fought with them at Banyas and Butaiha, killing dozens of his fellow Christians. He has committed treason against the Kingdom and sacrilege against the Holy Church.’ He paused to look each judge in the eye. ‘For justice and for the salvation of his soul, he must die for his crimes.’ Heraclius bowed again and returned to his seat.

The seneschal looked to William. ‘What does the accused say to these charges?’

‘He pleads innocent to treason and sacrilege.’

The seneschal looked to Heraclius. ‘I understand you have a witness?’ Heraclius nodded. Guy raised his voice to address the armed men at the far end of the hall. ‘Guards! Bring the witness.’ A guard stepped out and returned a moment later with a short man in a loose-fitting burnoose. He had close-set eyes and a turned-up nose that gave him a piggish appearance. A gruesome gash ran along the left side of his face from his hairline to his jaw. The wound was recent, still angry and red, oozing blood near his temple. The man passed John and bowed before the throne. ‘Present yourself,’ the seneschal ordered him.

‘I am Harold, a sergeant and vassal of the King.’ Sergeants were Frankish warriors who, in return for title to their lands in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, served as foot-soldiers in the armies of their lord.

‘Do you swear by God that you will speak the truth?’ the seneschal asked.

‘Aye, I do.’

The seneschal nodded. ‘Heraclius, you may question the witness.’

Harold did not wait to be questioned. He pointed at John. ‘That whoreson killed my brother! And he did this to me.’ Harold touched the wound on his face.