Jack Hight - Eagle

John hesitated. Honour and mercy, the virtues of a warrior: that was what his father had taught him. He had not come to the Holy Land to place more blood on his head. He lowered his sword and stepped away. ‘I spare you.’ The crowd booed.

‘Very chivalrous of you,’ Reynald said as he stepped past John. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword and brought it down on the captive’s neck, killing him instantly. The crowd roared its approval as Reynald hacked down again and again, severing the man’s head from his body. Reynald picked up the head and threw it to the cheering crowd. Then he turned back to John and put his arm around his shoulders. ‘You’re brave, Saxon; a man after my own heart. What’s your real name?’

‘Iain, my lord. Iain of Tatewic.’

Reynald frowned. ‘That’s no name for a knight.’ Franks could never get their mouths around ‘Iain.’

‘John, sir. You can call me John.’

‘Very well, then, John. You will come to the castle with me tonight, and you will meet our King.’

John spurred his horse as he followed Reynald into the courtyard of the palace of the King of Jerusalem. Reynald was dressed in leather breeches and a handsome green silk tunic. John wore his chainmail and crusader’s surcoat: the only clothes he owned that were fit for the occasion. They dismounted, handed their reins to the waiting servants and headed for an arched doorway at the far side of the courtyard.

A sentry at the door blocked their way. ‘Your swords, milords.’

‘The High Council meets tonight,’ Reynald explained to John as he unbuckled his sword belt. ‘Everyone of any importance will be here: the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the archbishops of Caesarea and Nazareth; the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital; the Kings of Jerusalem, Tripoli, France and the Holy Roman Empire, along with their leading nobles. If tempers get out of hand — and they inevitably will — then it is best that no one be armed.’

John handed over his sword and followed Reynald through a wide doorway and into the great hall. He stopped, dumbstruck. Thick, stone pillars — torches mounted in brackets affixed to their sides — ran down either side of the space, supporting a vaulted roof so high that the ceiling disappeared in the darkness. Chairs had been set up in the wide spaces between the pillars. They were filled with bishops in their robes, German and Frankish lords in simple linen tunics, and armoured Templar and Hospitaller commanders, all with their men standing behind them. In the centre of the hall the floor was thickly carpeted with rugs decorated in a dizzying profusion of geometric patterns. But all of this was as nothing compared to the finery of the men and women at the far end of the hall. The flickering torchlight glimmered against gold embroidery, flashed off rings sporting enormous rubies and amethysts, and shimmered on silk caftans in rich red, saffron yellow, bright green and deep sea-blue. At the centre of this luxury were a middle-aged woman and a young man, seated side by side on gilt thrones. The woman, dressed in scarlet silk and wearing a crown of interwoven strands of gold, had wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but her long black hair had not a touch of grey. Her jaw was firmly set and her eyes were a piercing blue. The man, who wore blue silk and a heavier gold crown, looked to be half her age. He had a florid complexion, straight hair the colour of straw and a full beard of the same colour. He sat rigidly straight, repeatedly licking his lips.

‘They dress like bloody Saracens, don’t they?’ Reynald whispered. ‘That is King Baldwin of Jerusalem and his mother, Queen Melisende. Baldwin’s a good man, but don’t let his finery fool you. He and Melisende have been hounding our King Louis for money like two Jews. There’s our king, there.’ Reynald gestured to a youthful man in linen breeches and a green linen tunic fringed with silk. His long chestnut hair and thick beard disguised a rather weak chin. But what caught John’s eye was the woman on the king’s left. She was a beauty, with flawless alabaster skin, sharp cheekbones and long auburn hair that curled at the end. She glanced in John’s direction, and he saw that her eyes were of darkest amber. He looked away, embarrassed.

‘Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine,’ Reynald said with a smirk. He lowered his voice. ‘They say the slut has been sleeping with her uncle, Raymond of Antioch, that man there.’ He pointed across the hall to a handsome, square-jawed man with sparkling blue eyes. ‘I’m more interested in Eleanor’s cousin, Constance,’ Reynald continued, pointing past Raymond to a rather plump woman with a pug nose and close-set eyes. ‘She is the heir to Antioch. Whoever marries her will have his own kingdom.’ He paused. ‘Now come, let me introduce you to our king.’

Reynald led the way across the hall and bowed low before King Louis. John did the same. ‘I trust that everything is in place for tonight, Reynald?’ Louis asked. ‘You have Baldwin’s answer?’

‘I do indeed, sire. He is with us.’

‘Good.’

‘And who is this handsome knight that you have brought with you, Reynald?’ Eleanor asked. John fixed his gaze on the floor.

‘May I present John the Saxon?’

‘The knight who bested the Saracen captive today?’ Eleanor asked.

‘The same, my lady.’

‘You are far from home, John,’ Louis noted. ‘Tell me, how does a Saxon come to be in my service?’

John swallowed. ‘You-you fight for God, my lord. In serving you, I serve Him.’

Louis smiled. ‘I’m sure. And I’m sure you have no great love for your Norman king, either.’ Louis dismissed John with a wave of his hand and turned to speak to one of his courtiers. Reynald grabbed John by the elbow and led him to the side.

‘He spoke to you, a great honour,’ Reynald whispered. ‘The council is about to begin. The proceedings are in Latin. They will mean nothing to you.’

‘I speak Latin, my lord.’

Reynald arched an eyebrow. ‘You are full of surprises, Saxon. Very well. Wait in the back behind those columns. Say nothing and keep out of sight.’

John slipped into the shadows of the side aisle and took up a position at the end of the hall furthest from King Baldwin’s throne. He watched as a wrinkled, bald priest in white robes embroidered with gold walked to the centre of the hall and slammed the butt of his staff against the floor three times. ‘This council is now in session!’ he declared in Latin. He left the floor, rejoining the other religious men, amongst whom John noticed William of Tyre, the young priest he had met at the fountain on his first day in Acre.

King Baldwin spoke next. ‘Welcome knights, lords, men of God, kings and queens. You all know why this council has been called. A second crusade has come to our kingdom, led by valiant King Conrad and brave King Louis. Some say the object of this crusade should be the great city of Aleppo. Others wish to attack Damascus. Tonight, we shall decide.’ He paused and licked his lips. ‘I will now hear arguments.’

Conrad, a stocky, grey-haired German, rose to speak, but before he had said a word, a voice whispered in John’s ear. ‘I know you.’ John spun about to find himself face to face with a blond boy, perhaps three years younger than himself. The boy had pale blue eyes and an aquiline nose. ‘You’re the brave one, the knight who took off his armour before fighting the Saracen captive. I watched from the wall.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Amalric.’ The boy leaned close and dropped his voice even lower. ‘You know that the man you killed was no spy?’

‘What do you mean? Lord Reynald said he captured those men spying on our forces. He said they were Unur’s men.’

Amalric burst into sudden laughter, and John glanced about to see if anybody had noticed. Amalric’s mirth faded as quickly as it had come. ‘Palace rumour says differently. I heard that your Lord Reynald raided a small village this morning, a village within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He slaughtered everyone — men, women and children — and took those four “spies” as captives.’