Jack Hight: Kingdom

John stood bent over and gasping, each breath an agony. Across from him, Amalric pulled off his ruined helmet and cast it aside. His blond hair was matted with blood. ‘My lord!’ the seneschal gasped as he stepped forward.

Amalric waved him back. ‘Let me finish this,’ he growled and raised his sword.

John did likewise. He straightened and forced himself to smile. He would show no weakness, nothing that might give Amalric an advantage. ‘I am waiting, sire.’

Amalric charged with a roar. At the last second, John threw himself at the king’s legs, but Amalric was ready: he leapt over John and landed on his feet. John rolled and had begun to push himself to his feet when the king’s sword slammed into his back, knocking him flat. Amalric stepped on John’s sword hand and then kicked his sword away. John rolled on to his back and found himself looking up at the point of Amalric’s blade. ‘Well fought, John. But the fight is over. Do you yield?’

John tried to rise, but Amalric stomped on his chest, forcing him back down. John looked past the king’s blade to his blue eyes, and then to the grey sky beyond. So this was how it ended. John closed his eyes. ‘I yield.’

John sat hunched over, his head between his knees, staring at the damp dirt floor of his cell. Today was the day that he would die. From somewhere close by came the sound of dripping water. How many more drops, he wondered, until they came for him? How many more before he was crucified?

The dripping was swallowed up by the sound of approaching footsteps. John shivered, despite himself. The time had come. The footsteps stopped outside his cell. He looked up and was surprised to see William on the other side of the steel bars. ‘I have brought someone to see you,’ the priest said.

William moved aside, and Amalric stepped into the pool of torchlight before the cell. John tried to stand, but the pain from his blistered feet was too great. He sank back down. ‘Forgive me if I do not rise, sire.’ Amalric waved away the apology. ‘Why have you come?’ John asked wearily. ‘Do you wish to see what a dead man looks like?’

‘You are not dead yet, John of Tatewic.’ Amalric produced a key and unlocked the cell. He pulled the door open. ‘I have come to free you.’

John blinked stupidly. ‘What?’

‘I have pardoned you,’ Amalric explained as he stepped into the cell. ‘I have need of men like you, John. You are a man of courage. You almost beat me yesterday fighting with one arm, after having defeated two great warriors.’

‘You are wasting your time, sire. I will not fight the Saracens.’

‘I do not want you to fight. I want you to serve at my court. I am surrounded by spies and intriguers. I could use someone from the outside, someone who is loyal to me alone. And I want you to tutor my young son in the ways of our enemy. You know the Saracens better than any of us. I want Prince Baldwin to speak their tongue, to know their ways. Who better to teach him? Will you serve me, John?’

‘I already have a lord. I cannot serve two masters.’

Amalric frowned. ‘If you will not serve me, then you will die, John.’

‘We are not asking you to betray your Saracen lord,’ William added, ‘but to help bring about peace between our peoples. This is a chance to redeem yourself, John. A chance to earn your salvation.’

John hesitated a moment longer. He nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘There is one condition,’ Amalric warned. ‘You must swear never again to take up arms against the Kingdom or your fellow Christians.’

‘I swear it.’

‘Good!’ Amalric began to laugh his strange, manic laugh. The outburst passed as quickly as it came. He extended his hand. John winced at the pain in his feet as Amalric pulled him upright. ‘You are my man,’ the king said and embraced John. ‘Now, we shall have to see you married.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Life at court is not cheap, John. You need a wife with lands of her own.’ Amalric paused. ‘Why, John, you look as if you had swallowed a camel turd!’

‘I do not wish for a bride, sire.’

Amalric frowned. ‘It is either that or enter the priesthood.’

‘I am no priest. I have loved women, killed men, betrayed vows.’

William smiled. ‘That hardly disqualifies you. The Patriarch of Jerusalem is a brave warrior and a notorious womanizer.’

‘Priests!’ Amalric snorted. ‘Do not bother with them, John. Let me find you a wife.’

‘I-that is-’ John took a deep breath. ‘There is a woman.’

‘You are married?’ Amalric asked. John shook his head, and the king clapped him on the back. ‘Then what is the difficulty? I will find you a local beauty, one of the Syrian Christians, with ample — assets.’ He winked. ‘You will forget all about this other woman.’

‘No, sire. I would prefer to enter the priesthood.’

Amalric’s joviality vanished. ‘I cannot say I understand your choice, but very well. William will see to it. I will see you tomorrow morning at the palace.’ Amalric stepped out of the cell.

‘If I am free, what is to prevent me from leaving the city?’ John called after him. ‘From going back to the Saracens?’

Amalric turned and met his gaze. ‘Your word. That is enough for me.’

The king left, and William entered the cell. ‘Come, John. Let’s get you to your quarters. You will stay at the Hospital of Saint John until you are ordained.’ John put his arm over the priest’s shoulder and leaned into him as they left the cell. ‘After a suitable period as an acolyte, you will be made a canon in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ the priest told him. ‘You will receive a monthly prebend, from which you can pay a vicar to perform your duties. You will spend most of your time at court.’

They climbed a flight of narrow stairs and stepped out into the palace courtyard. It was a brilliant autumn morning, the sky a deep blue. William helped John across the courtyard and through a wide gate that led out into the city. They paused on the far side of the gate. Straight ahead stood the vaulted halls and churches of the Hospitaller complex. John looked down the road to his right, to where a church loomed over a pig market. In the distance to his left, a rocky outcrop rose above the city: the Temple Mount. He could make out the mighty Dome of the Rock, its gilded roof glinting in the morning sun. William noticed his wide-eyed expression and smiled. ‘A pretty sight, is she not? Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City.’

MARCH 1164: ALEPPO

Yusuf awoke with a start. The sheets of his bed were damp with sweat. In his dreams he had been on the field of battle. He had run for his life and then turned to watch as John was struck down from behind. The same nightmare had haunted him ever since the defeat at Butaiha six months ago. He rose and crossed the room to throw open the shutters. Soft morning light flooded in, along with the wavering call of the muezzins beckoning the faithful to morning prayers.

From the window of his modest home he could see the citadel, its white stone walls rising sheer from the tall hill on which it stood. Yusuf had told the king, Nur ad-Din, that he was purchasing quarters outside the palace to provide a home for his widowed sister Zimat and her son Ubadah. But that was only part of the reason. The truth was that he wished to be as far away as possible from the palace. At Butaiha, Yusuf had saved the life of the king and earned himself a new name: Saladin, ‘righteous in faith’. He had become one of the king’s most trusted advisers, and yet the more Nur ad-Din confided in him, the more Yusuf was wracked by guilt. For he had betrayed his lord in the worst way imaginable. He had slept with Nur ad-Din’s wife, Asimat. Yusuf broke the relationship off, but not before Asimat became pregnant. She would deliver any day now, and the child was not Nur ad-Din’s. It was his.